


a symbol of subjugation

by evocates



Category: Naruto
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And I Added MadaTobi Because I Adore Them, As in the historical Sengoku Period, Because Fuck You and Your Handling of Trauma Kishimoto, Blindness, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Trauma, Complex PTSD to be Exact and Due to, Concubinage, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Doesn't Happen Between MadaTobi But Discussed As a Real Possibility Due to Period and Premise, Economics, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Gender Issues, Gender Roles, Healing, How Culture Can Be Used to Justify and Perpetuate Abuse, I Put My Rage About Kishimoto's Worldbuilding Into a Fic, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Intra-clan Politics, Japanese Character(s), Japanese Culture, Japanese Mythology & Folklore, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Mundane Uses of Chakra, Mundane Uses of Jutsu, POV Multiple, Past Child Abuse, Period-Typical Sexism, Period-Typical Underage, Permanent Injury, Philosophy, Politics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Rating for themes not porn, Recovery, Senju Hashirama Needs a Hug, Senju Tobirama Needs a Hug, Slow Burn, Solving Canon's Issues Before They Can Occur, Specifically Tobirama goes blind, The Mundanities of War, The Simple Privileges of Peace, Village Building as a Metaphor for Nation Building, What Makes for a Non-Human?, While Dealing Properly With, Worldbuilding, inter-clan politics, plot without porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-01-26 05:01:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 324,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21368578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evocates/pseuds/evocates
Summary: “Consider how this looks. The Senju proposes peace at the height of their power. The Uchiha, already losing, don’t have the resources to match the Senju. If the Senju provides us with food and armour, the Uchiha must become subordinate. Is that what you think of as peace, Senju? Over at the Uchiha compound, we call that subjugation by the most powerful.”“It seems that there is only one possible solution: the Senju must choose a symbol to subjugate itself to the Uchiha to balance out the scales. For that role, I volunteer myself.”The wise ones know: fires can warm and not burn; and rivers, if given strength and permission, will carve the land.(Or, the one in which Tobirama becomes Madara’s concubine, and peace is won and held through neither power nor love, but food, water, clothes, and medicine.)Complete.
Relationships: Senju Hashirama & Senju Tobirama, Senju Hashirama & Uchiha Madara, Senju Hashirama/Uzumaki Mito, Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Madara, Senju Touka/Uchiha Hikaku/Uchiha Izuna, Uchiha Izuna & Uchiha Madara, Uchiha Madara & Uzumaki Mito
Comments: 1698
Kudos: 2849





	1. the kyuubi takes a stroll

**Author's Note:**

> When I first found MadaTobi two years ago, this is the fic that I told people that I wouldn’t write. I didn’t write it then, and I drifted out of _Naruto_ just as suddenly as I drifted into it. Two years later, I drifted back in here, and, well. This fic isn’t supposed to exist, but it does now, I guess. I’m still not sure how that happened; it feels like I was ambushed in a dark alley at knife point, to be honest.
> 
> In any case, I went through practically the entire MadaTobi tag over the last couple of months. So, there’s a great deal here that I stole from fanon, and a great deal more where I deliberately deviated from it. If you find anything here that’s familiar, it’s not mine, and I likely have no idea where I took it from. If something that seems odd or new, it is mine. 
> 
> Beta’d by kikibug13, who knows absolutely nothing about this fandom (again), but does this for me anyway. Any mistakes remaining are mine.
> 
> **Warnings:** This fic takes a completely different perspective from _Naruto _about the natures of war and peace. A lot of canon is about big things happening: wars, significant battles, drastic actions, etc. This fic takes a completely different perspective and say that change can only come and _stay_ through mundane things: food, water, clothes, shelter. Small actions enact tiny changes that, like a million butterflies flapping their wings, eventually change the world. 
> 
> I'm really hoping that it won't end up boring to read.
> 
> Chapter-specific warnings are on top of every chapter. But in general, the tags apply, and I’m basing the timeline of the Founders’ Era on Japan’s Sengoku Era. Couple that with shinobi ideas, the concept of ‘adulthood’ is extremely fluid and is more based on necessity and ability than age: so, killing people when in single digits is considered normal, and so is getting married and having kids at thirteen or so. (Even modern Japan’s age of consent is thirteen.) 
> 
> Also, when I tag ‘slow burn,’ I really mean it.

** _ARC ONE: WILD FIRE, HEARTH FIRE_ **

Tobirama lifted his head, brows creasing into a frown.

He had always been peripherally aware of that particular chakra signature – akin to a shrine’s constantly-burning flame that needed no fuel, bright like an unending life force – but it had been much further away than this, nearer the desolate Mountains’ Graveyard in the far north than to any populated area. But he could feel it right now close to the strip of land that separate the Senju’s lands from the Uchiha’s. 

Lips pressing together, Tobirama headed out of his labs at the very edge of the Senju’s main compound. The backyard here was a plot of untouched ground, and when he pressed two fingers into the dirt, the world sparked into far sharper clarity than it would anywhere else in the area.

(This was one of the main reasons why he had chosen this spot for his labs.)

The signature was moving. If Tobirama was being fanciful, he would say that the creature it belonged to was taking a stroll through the heavy forests that separated settlements in the Land of Fire from each other. If he wasn’t, well—

Wait. There was another signature, far weaker and flickering. Embers licking the edges of falling ash. He knew it far better than he would have liked. 

Tobirama slowly rose to his feet. He rolled his shoulders back, one after the other, and headed back inside. His body took him towards the corner of his desk where he had shoved a bunch of scrolls after he had gotten bored of reading them. It was a matter of seconds for him to sift through them to pick up what he wanted. He brought the papers close to his face.

_The samurai of the Land of Iron have recently unified under a single banner: Oda Nobunaga has proclaimed himself Daimyo after defeating the last of his enemies three months ago, during what is already named the Battle of Nagashino. Reports of the battle credit the victory more to the infighting between long-term enemies and uneasy allies Takeda Shingen and Uesugi Kenshin than to Oda’s own military might or brilliance._

Placing the paper down, Tobirama sighed. It likely wouldn’t work; it hadn’t for Takeda and Uesugi, and they were far from the first to ally with a long-time enemy against a bigger threat. But with the roaring chakra signature filling the back of his mind, Tobirama wondered if there was a chance. 

A possibility. 

His eyes slid towards the centre of his desk, to the sketches of the seals he had been working on. The Hiraishin was meant to counter the Sharingan, but its development was still in the middle stages, not even ready enough for experimentation. Nowhere near complete even with the help of Mito and all of the scrolls on sealing she had brought with her from Uzushio. Once it worked – and he was sure it would, given enough time – there was a high chance that he could kill the Uchiha’s clan heir with it and thus cripple the clan for months or even years. 

And that would hopefully be enough of a catalyst for Madara to take the hand that Hashirama had always held out before every battle. The Uchiha wouldn’t be as unreasonable as to fight a war they were clearly losing, after all.

Tobirama flattened his hands on top of the smooth, mukuton-grown wood of his desk, thinking. 

Staying here to work on the Hiraishin would lead him down a single path, comfortably predictable until Izuna’s death, at which point it would fade off into the fog of the unknown. Heading out of his lab and the compound to chase the two signatures he could still feel would lead him to a fork in the road, with both paths dark from the start.

He had never prioritised comfort.

Grabbing his sketches, Tobirama shoved them into the drawers built underneath the desk. He pushed the reports from the Land of Iron on top, covering them, so that Hashirama wouldn’t see Tobirama’s plans on the off-chance that he barged in here to pull him out for inconsequential things like food or sleep. 

(It wasn’t that he wanted to hide things from his older brother, but Hashirama would want to know what he was working on, and Tobirama knew from long experience that trying to explain sealing theory to him was just an exercise in exhaustion, taking more out of him than explanations in general did.)

The spare set of armour he kept in the corner of his labs was heavier than the one he usually wore to battle, but that could be an advantage. Strapping the metal chest plate into place, he made one last sped-up walkthrough of the last few hours he had spent in the lab in his head to make sure that he really had left nothing out, and he headed out.

A wave towards the head guard at the gates – Hakuhiko, third cousin twice removed on Tobirama’s mother’s side – with three fingers held up, then he was heading into the forest, jumping from branch to branch as he headed towards the smaller chakra signature.

Izuna had stopped a few minutes ago, likely taking his rest at the foot of the cliffs near the Naka River. Which happened to be a few hundred metres directly below the overwhelmingly huge chakra signature that had _also_ decided to stop in the area. 

Tobirama ran a little faster, mixing slaps of his sandals against tree trunks with shunshin and kawarimi whenever he could. A foolish waste of chakra, perhaps, but… 

If Izuna died, it had to be by Tobirama’s hand; had to be because Tobirama had finally bested him after six years of fighting and pulled the Senju ahead of the stalemate it had been locked into with the Uchiha. It would be insulting to _Tobirama_ if Izuna ended up dying not because of battle, but because he was sense-blind enough to stumble upon a huge chakra beast without even noticing. 

After twenty minutes, water reached his senses, a cool rush of chakra that soothed his heated nerves by its very presence. Tobirama inhaled and threw his senses outwards. Izuna’s signature flared to life in his mind.

Dammit, the Uchiha couldn’t make _anything_ easy, could he? 

Dropping down to the ground, he took a running leap into the river, sinking within the depths with barely a sound. A small suiton jutsu that created a bubble of air around his head later, Tobirama was being carried westwards by the current.

Only a few metres away, now. Tobirama threw himself sideways, moved through familiar hand signs, and yanked himself out of the river along with a water dragon.

“Senju—” 

He barely had time to notice Izuna’s eyes shifting from black to red before he wrapped a hand around the other man’s arm, and moved into shunshin.

“_Quiet_,” Tobirama hissed. He carefully avoided looking at the Sharingan – this far away, it wouldn’t work on him, but it was habit by now – instead pointing towards the burning heat of the creature’s chakra signature that wanted to tear through his nerves even through the soothing calm of water. “Look.”

They were on top of one of the tallest trees in the area, but it still barely reached the middle of the cliff. But they didn’t need to be at the top – even Tobirama could _see_ the flickering orange flames that nearly eclipsed the sun. Izuna, with his Sharingan, likely could see even the edges of the chakra flames.

“Holy motherfucking—” Izuna breathed. The Sharingan’s chakra, heavy and corrosive like gangrene, scraped over Tobirama’s nerves. “What the _fuck_ is _that_?” 

Good; Izuna had no idea what it was, either. That put them on an even keel with regards to knowledge of the new threat. 

“I don’t know,” Tobirama said. “But I have a proposition.”

“You—” This close, he could _hear_ the rattling breath Izuna took. “You rose out of the water like a goddamned _mouryou _waiting to eat my corpse, there’s a _bakemono _right over there, and— and you’re talking about _propositions_?”

Tobirama blinked. Then, realising that his hair was plastered onto his face because of the water, he impatiently wicked all of it away, and turned to squint at Izuna.

The other man’s cheeks and lips were pale, far too much to be accounted for by an Uchiha’s colouring. There was a faint scent of blood around him, and it came from beneath the arm he had wrapped around the bottom of his ribs. His other arm was, for some reason, clutched around a heavy scroll instead. He seemed to be swaying a little on his feet.

Well, that explained why Tobirama hadn’t gotten a katon in his face the moment the shunshin had faded. 

Reaching out, Tobirama grabbed his hand. Izuna snarled at him, but Tobirama pushed that aside and, with another shunshin, moved them to the bottom of the tree. He let go immediately, taking a step back.

Izuna listed to the side, but straightened immediately. Tobirama rolled his eyes, reaching for his sword. Strangely enough, Izuna took the arm away from his wound instead of letting go of the scroll, and Tobirama shelved that away to think about later as he shoved _his _own sword into Izuna’s hand, dislodging the kunai that the Uchiha had grabbed. Then he pushed the wrist down until the sheathed blade slammed into the ground.

“A cane,” he explained. It was technically an insult to the blade, but Tobirama was a shinobi, not a samurai. “You seem to need one.” 

“What—” Izuna started. After a moment, he let out another breath before he sat down, legs sprawled wide apart. “You know what, I have no idea what the fuck is going on, and I’m too fucking tired to figure it out.”

“I have a proposition,” Tobirama repeated patiently.

“Is that proposition killing me?” Tobirama shook his head. “Feeding me to that giant _bakemono_ over there?” Another shake. “Offering me up as a tribute?” 

“Are you always this dramatic away from the battlefield?” Tobirama asked, mystified despite himself. Izuna had always seemed so poised and cold whenever he appeared opposite Tobirama on the battlefield. Then again, they had probably spoken more to each other in the past five minutes than they had in six years.

Izuna made a sound remarkably like a kettle going off. “_I’m_ dramatic? You literally— you just—” his teeth clicked together. “Are _you_ always like this off the battlefield? Actually, don’t answer; I don’t want to know. I just want this conversation to be over.”

Looking thoughtfully at Izuna’s blurry figure on the ground – seated, stance wide open – Tobirama took a leaf from his older brother’s book and gambled. He dropped to his knees and reached out. 

Immediately, Izuna yelped, trying to pull away, but Tobirama had always been faster – Izuna had greater reserves and raw power – and slapped his hand over the place where he could smell the blood before Izuna’s kunai could cross the last inches to slice open his throat.

Medical ninjutsu wasn’t his specialty, but it _was_ Hashirama’s, and Hashirama – with Mito’s efforts – had convinced the clan a year or so ago to ensure that every single person with any talent at chakra control could do some of it. So, it might not be the most refined healing that could be done – the scar left would be rather horrid – but Izuna wouldn’t bleed out before the conversation was over.

“You—” Metal clacked against small rocks as Izuna’s kunai-holding hand fell to the ground. “Senju, what the _fuck_?”

“I have a proposition,” Tobirama said for the third time. “You don’t seem inclined to listen to me. This is an incentive.” Which meant that he should heal the internal bleeding as well. He did so.

“Did you forget that I’m an Uchiha?” Izuna asked, sounding incredulous.

“If you were not an Uchiha, I would not be here,” Tobirama said, wondering if battlefields graced with Izuna intelligence because he seemed remarkably bereft of it right now. “We would not even know each other.”

“That was a— I—” Izuna took a deep breath. He dragged a hand over his face. “Okay. I’m listening. To your proposition.”

Leaning back, Tobirama let his hand drop back to his side. A brief brush of his fingers against the ground confirmed what the air had already said: Izuna’s concession was sincere. Which was a relief, because Tobirama wasn’t quite sure what _else _he could do to make Izuna listen. 

He hadn’t even reached the fork in the road, and everything was already dark.

There was one more clear step he could take, however.

“You saw the creature,” Tobirama said. “It has never come this way before, and it doesn’t seem inclined to leave. There is also no guarantee that either of our clans would be able to go against it if it decides to attack us.” A breath, and he kept his gaze above Izuna’s head. “The civil war in the Land of Iron has recently ended. During the war, two long-term enemies formed an alliance to fight against the bigger threat.”

Silence. Izuna let out a long, low breath. “Takeda and Uesugi _lost _against Oda,” he said. Hah, so Izuna had been keeping up with the politics of far-off countries as well; that was a surprise. “But correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re saying that the Senju and Uchiha should ally to defeat that big monster.”

Had he been unclear? “Yes. There are many precedents throughout history of enemies allying with each other against a bigger threat.”

“Okay,” Izuna said, rubbing a hand over his face again. There were streaks of red all over his cheeks and jaw. “Let’s say it works, what happens then?”

“A temporary alliance is still an alliance,” Tobirama pointed out.

“You’re saying,” Izuna said slowly, “that this giant monster can lead us to peace.”

“The attempt to defeat the monster will give the Senju and Uchiha a chance to work together,” Tobirama corrected. “Right now, peace is nothing but an abstract concept because no one of either clan have ever worked together before.” Save, perhaps, for Hashirama and Madara. “Standing side-by-side, fighting against a bigger threat, will make the idea of peace more concrete.”

“Hah,” Izuna said. “I thought you hated the Uchiha?”

Tobirama fell silent, thinking. _Dehumanising the enemy is a common tactic_, he could say, but it was too obvious an avoidance of the question. _Your clan murdered my younger brothers, and my older brother defined his dream of peace as the prevention of such deaths; so, I would work for that for the sake of no Senju ever going through the pain we had_. That would be giving away too much.

_Ever since my brother became clan head, Senju children have disappeared from the battlefield. But I have never seen an Uchiha child on it._ That wasn’t an answer, either, though it was closer to it.

“Senju?”

“If I hated your clan,” Tobirama said, carefully enunciating each word as they came to his mind, “I would’ve ignored you to cut down as many Uchiha as I could whenever our clans met on the battlefield.”__  
  
“That would just end up with more Senju dead,” Izuna said, sounding remarkably calm. 

“Hatred is irrational,” Tobirama pointed out. “If I truly hated your clan, Uchiha, I would’ve taken those deaths as fuel for further bloodshed for the sake of revenge.” That was what Father had done, after all. “And I would’ve pushed myself to be even faster and stronger so that I kill more Uchiha than you would Senju.”

“So,” Izuna said, “I should accept that you don’t hate my clan because you haven’t massacred us?”

“No,” Tobirama said. “Because I haven’t tried.” He tilted his head to the side. “And I would prefer to not try.”

“I’d have thought that the destruction of the Uchiha would be something you’d be happy about.”

“That’s foolish,” Tobirama said, frowning because he had genuinely thought Izuna smarter than this. “There is absolutely no way to completely destroy a clan, not unless you kill every single person, down to the last civilian member and infant. And that is _impossible_, because members of a shinobi clan will always be out on one mission or another.

“And,” he held up the hand not touching the ground, “leaving even a single member alive would lead to revenge and a cycle of bloodshed that will eventually spark into another war.” He took a breath. “Furthermore, if the Senju storm the Uchiha compound to slaughter infants and children and civilians, all of the other clans would rise up against us in fear that we would do the same to them.” 

“I have never,” Izuna said, “realised that you talk in _paragraphs_ and not sentences, Senju.”

“A line of logic must be fully explained for comprehension to be certain.”

“Hah,” Izuna said again. Tobirama was starting to get a sense that Izuna made that sound to think aloud, which was very strange for a shinobi. “But you’ve always tried your best to kill me.”

“You do the same,” Tobirama shot back. “Besides…” Well, he had already spoken so much, so he might as well. “The Senju and Uchiha have been at a stalemate for years. Killing you would turn to tide to our favour, and make peace a more acceptable option—”

He cut himself off, because Izuna was laughing. His chakra said that it wasn’t mirth, not the kind that made Hashirama roar loud enough to scare birds in the trees, but more of triumph and horror and a deep-rending grief that made absolutely no sense when mixed together.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Stalemate,” Izuna choked out. “Nii-san is going to be so happy. You think we’re at a _stalemate_.” 

“Uchiha—”

“Fuck, this makes so much sense,” Izuna said, rubbing a hand over his face. “_So much fucking sense_. I didn’t think it had worked. I thought there was no way it would’ve worked, but it _did, _and now everything makes so much sense.” 

Tobirama stared. He decided to give Izuna some time to collect himself, and settled to sit cross-legged on the forest ground. Once Izuna’s figure stopped blurring so much, Tobirama leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Explain.”

Izuna didn’t reply for long moments. Tobirama kept his eyes on the spot over the other man’s head, and fought to not shudder as the corrosive chakra of the Sharingan ran over his body.

“Nii-san’s going to kill me,” Izuna muttered. “But…” He finally let go of the scroll in his arms, putting it down and unrolling it. It was a storage scroll, and, as Tobirama watched, Izuna broke the seal and slammed his hand on top of the ink. Then Izuna leaned back, beckoning, and Tobirama couldn’t resist leaning forward even though he could _smell_ what Izuna’s precious cargo had been.

Rice, buckwheat, and soybeans in heavy canvas bags. Tea leaves, in smaller ones. Huge dried bonito, each fish longer than a man’s arm. Sheets upon sheets of dried kelp, so many of them tied together with strings that the green looked solid instead of translucent. Ceramic jars with red paper covering the top, scentless but recognisable nonetheless: salt.

“For our winter stores,” Izuna said, voice no louder than a whisper. He huffed a quiet laugh. “Well, we’ll have winter stores once I get this home.” __

__The words struck Tobirama as hard as Father’s backhand. If he wasn’t already seated, he would’ve fallen.

(When Tobirama was between the ages of six and fourteen, he had gone two weeks of every year without food except for what he could scavenge from the forest. It had been part of his training; Father had explained that sometimes missions would run for far longer than the rations carried could provide for, and, as part of the main house, he wasn’t allowed to fail a single mission. Even when his stomach was eating itself, even when he was so dizzied by hunger that his eyes were entirely useless and even his chakra sense went haywire, he still had to train and think and _succeed_. 

Though Tobirama was grateful to Father for putting him through that training – it _was _useful – he still… Well, after Father died and Hashirama took over as clan head and told Tobirama that the training was no longer necessary, Tobirama nearly turned the tables on his brother and cried all over him.)

This very morning, Tobirama recalled dully, Hashirama had complained about always having rice and fish and miso for breakfast. If this was all that the Uchiha had for winter, then they would have it for every meal. Would they even have three meals? How many of them were there? How many people were these supplies supposed to feed?

And they didn’t have an end date. They had to fight and go on the battlefield without knowing if they would ever—

“Only Nii-san wears armour to battle,” Izuna continued. “Everyone else’s have been sold, and his only remained because we…” He trailed off into another dark, mirthless chuckle.

_Because we were trying to fool you_, Tobirama completed for him. _Because we didn’t want you to know_.

Izuna hadn’t known that the deception would work. And it _shouldn’t _have, because the Senju should have known. Tobirama’s eyes were terrible but everyone else’s worked; they should have noticed the dwindling number of armoured Uchiha. They should have— he cut off the line of thought. Hissed out a breath through his teeth.

“Surely peace is a better option, then,” Tobirama said.

“Is it?” Izuna asked. He was already sealing the foodstuffs – the provisions meant to feed his entire clan for _a whole season_ – back into the scroll. “You’re supposed to be a genius, Senju.”

Tobirama opened his mouth. Closed it. “Explain, Uchiha.”

He didn’t need to see to know Izuna was rolling his eyes. “Consider how this looks,” Izuna said, now seated with knees drawn up and his wrists resting on top of them. “The Senju proposes peace at the height of their power. The Uchiha, already losing, don’t have the resources to match the Senju. If the Senju provides us with food and armour, the Uchiha must become subordinate, because we’re now relying on you for survival.”

His chakra spiked with mocking humour. “Is that what you think of as peace, Senju? Over at the Uchiha compound, we call that subjugation by the most powerful.”

Tobirama had never thought about that. He had considered various possibilities to make his brother’s dream come true, and he had gotten frustrated at the Uchiha’s recalcitrance in taking up the multiple offers of peace over the last two years because he couldn’t understand _why_. 

He had been operating under erroneous premises. The Uchiha had been fighting at a disadvantage, and had been doing so long enough that all of their foodstores had run out, and they had done it skilfully enough that the Senju hadn’t noticed. It was…

Something Tobirama could _respect_. Which was a rather terrifying thought: he might be used to respecting Madara and Izuna – reluctantly, and out of the lack of choice given all of the evidence presented to him – but not the entire clan. For most parts, they resembled faceless hordes in his mind more than they did humans, but now…

This wasn’t what he had expected when he’d left the lab. Tobirama resisted the urge to dig his knuckles into his eyes. 

“You’re telling me,” he said once his thoughts had calmed down enough to be put into words, “that the Uchiha have always rejected peace not because you are balanced in power to the Senju, but because you aren’t.”

Izuna barked a laugh. “Senju,” he said, “you came here to me, fresh and combat-ready, while I am injured and damned near chakra exhaustion.” 

It had taken Izuna an incredibly long time before he would listen to Tobirama speak. And when he did, it was because he didn’t have a choice: if he tried to escape, Tobirama could easily chase him down. Not to mention the huge chakra beast that was still a few hundred metres away from where they were seated.

Then Tobirama had healed him. Considering the new perspective that Izuna had shown him, that meant that Izuna had absolutely _no choice_ but to listen to Tobirama, because now he was in his debt. It didn’t matter whatsoever that Tobirama wasn’t thinking of it as saving his life – he just wanted Izuna to listen to him without being distracted by the possibility of bleeding out – because _Izuna _saw it as owing him. And Izuna _still_ owed him, because listening to Tobirama wasn’t nearly enough to repay him for his life.

There was a possibility that Tobirama could leverage on that to wrangle some form of peace based on the life debt. He tossed out the idea immediately; that went against everything Izuna had just said and showed him. 

“Say something,” Izuna said. Tobirama ignored him.

When Itama was alive, Tobirama had commented to him and Hashirama that adults were stupid because they couldn’t keep to a peace pact. He had been trying to figure out the answer _why _they couldn’t, _why_ the Uchiha continued fighting this war when there seemed no benefit for both sides to continue. 

Now he had it: there needed to be a balance. Like yin and yang, both sides holding equal power.

He had figured it out. No— Izuna had _given _him the answer, handed it to him even though it might put him and his clan at an even greater disadvantage.

“Senju—”

“If I stabbed myself in exactly the same spot as your injury when I first came to you,” Tobirama cut him off, “would you have been more amenable to listening to me?”

“Wait, what?” Tobirama opened his mouth, but Izuna made a motion of his hand. “No, I don’t mean to repeat. I mean, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“You made our current situation into a metaphor for the circumstances of our clans,” Tobirama pointed out. “So, if I had come to you and realised you were injured, and injured myself exactly the same way, would that be the balance that you seek?”

Izuna opened his mouth. Closed it. “If that had actually happened, I would’ve thought you to be absolutely crazy and we’d probably both have died.” They wouldn’t, because Tobirama would’ve healed them both, but Izuna flapped his hand. “But if we’re taking it as a metaphorical stabbing, then yeah, it would work.” He paused. “You’re not thinking about crippling your clan, are you?”

Maybe Izuna _wasn’t_ deficient in intelligence out of the battlefield. “That’s exactly what I’m thinking about.”

“_What_?”

“A person,” Tobirama clarified. “If food and armour won’t work, because then the Uchiha would owe the Senju, then the Senju would have to cripple themselves by giving the Uchiha a person.” He frowned, urging his thoughts to move faster. “That person would have to be given away in such a way that the Senju admits their inferiority, so it’s not just crippling themselves, but raising the Uchiha as well.”

“Are you talking about giving a human being like they’re— like they’re _livestock_?” 

“The Uchiha has been acknowledged by the daimyo as a noble clan, right?” Tobirama demanded.

“Well, yeah, but—”

“Fostering won’t work, because there’s no one young and high-ranking enough that their loss would cripple the Senju significantly enough.” If Hashirama and Mito had a child, that child could serve in that role. But Tobirama wouldn’t do that even if the child existed; he wouldn’t do that to his brother, his sister, and his (currently hypothetical) niece or nephew. He took a deep breath.

“Do the Uchiha keep slaves?”

“No! We have vassals, but their bond is temporary until their debts are paid because we don’t make debts carry over a generation— wait, wait, Senju, what the _fuck_ are you talking about?”

Confusion. There was so much of it whirling in Izuna’s chakra that it was nearly enough to make _Tobirama_ dizzy. 

Hashirama had always said that this was his bad habit: he got so caught up with his own thought processes that he forgot to _explain_ to people how he reached his conclusions. Most of the time, Tobirama didn’t see why he should even try slowing down, because if people were too slow, it wasn’t really his problem.

(Children were an exception. They lacked experience and their brains had not finished developing, which meant that Tobirama was obliged to slow down for their sake.)

Now it was. He couldn’t make this work without Izuna’s agreement.

“The war carries on because there isn’t a balance of power for peace to be an option,” Tobirama said. After Izuna nodded, he continued, “It seems that there is only one possible solution: the Senju must choose a symbol to subjugate itself to the Uchiha to balance out the scales. That symbol must be powerful enough that their loss would lessen the Senju’s power and heighten the Uchiha’s, and high-ranking enough that, once they go into the Uchiha clan and take on a much more subordinate role, it would serve as the Senju’s declaration of at least one form of inferiority.”

“Oh,” Izuna breathed. 

“For that role,” Tobirama exhaled, “I volunteer myself.”

“You’re saying,” Izuna choked out, “you’re saying that you, the Senju’s _clan heir_, would become our _slave_, so that my clan would agree to peace.”

“The Uchiha don’t keep slaves,” Tobirama frowned. “You just said that.” 

“That’s not the—” Izuna spluttered. He rubbed a hand over his face. “Do you have no _pride_?”

“Of course I do,” Tobirama said. “This won’t work if I don’t.” Izuna was gaping at him, so he tried to explain. “I am proposing to be a symbol of _subjugation_. Being subjugated is part of the deal. Without pride, that can’t—” 

Izuna screamed. It was a remarkably restrained one, mostly muffled by the hands shoved over his mouth, but it was unmistakeably a scream.

“I’d think this is a genjutsu if I didn’t know that my imagination isn’t good enough to come up with something like this,” Izuna muttered to himself. He took a long, shuddering breath. “Let me get this _very_ clear, Senju: you’re saying that you would enslave yourself to us for the sake of peace.”

“You said,” Tobirama said, keeping hold of his patience by force, “the Uchihas don’t keep slaves!”

“Vassal, then!” Izuna hissed back. “You’d become our vassal?”

“Would that work to make the Senju seem inferior?” Tobirama asked.

“No,” Izuna sighed. “Because we take vassals according to their individual faults and crimes. Mostly that of owing us a lot of money.”

Now _Tobirama_ felt like screaming. “What would work, then?” he demanded.

Izuna opened his mouth. Closed it. He groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Nii-san is going to kill me,” he muttered. “He’s going to drown me and then burn me with Amaterasu for seven days straight and I would deserve it and I should’ve just let myself bleed out or something, because only the gods will save me from him and they wouldn’t even _bother_—”

“Uchiha!”

“Fine!” Izuna lowered his hands. “Fine, goddammit! There’s only one position that can fit.” He mumbled something too low to be heard.

Tobirama huffed out an annoyed breath. “_Uchiha—_” he said again.

“A concubine!” Izuna blurted out. “If you need to be a— a symbol of subjugation, like you put it, you can only be a concubine!”

Oh. Hm. That _could_ work. Tobirama didn’t think of it before because concubines tended to be women, and he was a man. But the laws _did_ allow for men to be concubines – the Senju clan head three generations before had had one of those, in fact – and female concubines were always from a lower social class. If the woman was of equal status, she would be a wife. With a man, well… 

Irrelevant. The important fact was this: if the Senju presented him as a concubine for one of the Uchiha, it would be an acknowledgement of their social inferiority. It really could _work_.

But— “Why would Madara kill you for telling me that?” he asked, curious despite himself.

“Because you’re a _clan heir_,” Izuna said, practically pulling on his own hair. “It would be _too_ insulting to the Senju if you’re the concubine to anyone but the Uchiha _clan head_.”

Tobirama blinked. “The Uchihas are a noble clan, the Senju aren’t,” he reminded. “I can just be your concubine instead.” He actually had a proper conversation with Izuna, for one thing. Which was more than he could say about his non-existent relationship with Madara. 

Izuna made that teakettle sound again. “We have been a noble clan for less than _one_ generation,” he said, sounding strangled. “We’ve been at war with the Senju for centuries; the noble title means _shit_ because being at war kind of implies social equality. Your clan just hasn’t petitioned the daimyo for noble status, that’s _all_.”

True enough, Tobirama thought. In fact, Father had wanted to do it after the Uchiha had, but Mito had delayed him until he died, and then Hashirama had promptly forbidden mentioning the idea ever again.

Come to think of it, Tobirama had never understood why. But that wasn’t important right now.

“Would Madara be agreeable?”

“Nii-san _really_ wants peace,” Izuna sighed. “I’ll have to talk to him about it. If he doesn’t kill me the moment I tell him about this, that is.”

“Is fratricide such a common occurrence within the Uchiha?”

“Figure of speech,” Izuna groaned into his hands. He wouldn’t be able to see Tobirama, but he stifled the twitch of his mouth anyway. “It’s a figure of speech.” 

He probably shouldn’t make fun of Izuna like this. He tilted his head, refocusing. “If I give you a chakra infusion, will that upset the balance of power?”

Izuna was staring at him again. Tobirama fought down another shudder. He really needed to get rid of that instinctive reaction towards the feel of the Sharingan’s chakra brushing over him if he was going to live within the Uchiha compound with a whole clan of people with the dojutsu.

“Why,” Izuna said, “would you do that?”

Tobirama shrugged. “I expended a lot of effort in speaking to you and we actually managed to make headway into forming a feasible plan,” he explained. “I’d rather not have it go to waste if you end up dead before you reach your compound.” Especially with the monstrous chakra right _there_ along his route.

Another moment of silence. “Yeah,” Izuna said. “Sure. Why not.” For some reason, he sounded extremely resigned.

Dismissing Izuna’s reaction, Tobirama reached out a hand. He stripped his own chakra of its own water affinity before letting it sink into the tenketsu point on Izuna’s chest. When Izuna’s signature had grown from a candleflame with a steady wick to a small hearth fire – nothing near the inferno that it usually was, but sufficient enough to get him home even if he met with trouble – Tobirama pulled away.

“A week,” Izuna said suddenly. “Give me a week. Even if Nii-san doesn’t agree to this plan, I’ll inform you.”

That was far more than Tobirama had expected; he thought he’d have to wait until the next time the Uchiha and the Senju skirmished with each other before he would hear of news. “Alright,” he said. He hesitated for a moment. “I look forward to it.”

It was half-true: he did anticipate the potential ending of the war with some delight, but having to move out of the Senju compound into the Uchiha… he quashed the emotions ruthlessly. He came up with the idea. He would do what needed to be done.

“You are…” Izuna started. After a moment, he shook his head. “Never mind. I’ll see you.” Then, before Tobirama could speak, he rose to his feet and leaped up into the trees.

Tobirama tracked him with a hand on the ground. When he felt Izuna approach the collection of thrumming, fiery heat that was the Uchiha compound, he rocked forward and up to his feet. Then he jumped up the tree, moving from branch to branch until he reached the top.

The monstrous chakra beast was still there, the orange flames of its body buzzing sharply at Tobirama’s senses. Tobirama looked at it for a long moment. He didn’t know what the beast was doing here, and he should probably try to figure it out, but…

But its presence had allowed him to meet Izuna; had allowed for this conversation and a path with an illuminated destination that very much resembled peace. And for all that Tobirama knew he lacked objectivity with some matters, he knew how to give credit where it was due.

“Thank you,” he whispered into the wind.

Deliberately turning away, he made for home. Just as he reached the compound’s gates, he felt the monstrous chakra signature move away.

Back in the direction of the Mountains’ Graveyard.

It really seemed to have been taking a stroll, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The samurai mentioned are all from Sengoku Jidai. The Uesugi has never allied with the Takeda against Oda, though, and Oda never managed to unify Japan. Naruto’s anachronisms and imprecise worldbuilding make me cry a lot, but it’s also a good excuse to be historically inaccurate to the real world when I’m just using it for plot. The samurai probably won’t come back again. 
> 
> Also, [_mouryou_](http://yokai.com/mouryou/) is a generic term of water spirits in general, and also a term for a particular kind of water youkai that lives in water and robs graves to eat the corpses inside. They have red eyes and can only be deterred by oak trees. Given that Hashirama’s mokuton uses oak the most, it’s pretty fitting. 8D


	2. uneasy lies the head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, you guys, I can't believe the reception to this fic. Honestly I was thinking that no one would want to read it because this is really self-indulgent and my idea of that is mostly worldbuilding via politics. The fact that all of you reacted so well is frankly amazing and I will never be able to get over it. 
> 
> I will get to replying to all of you as soon as work lets up (every minute of free time is right now being used to outline, write, and edit this monster.) I promise!!! 
> 
> **Warnings:** Implications of marital rape and rape in general being a very real possibility. Also, children getting married and being expected to have sex.

One arm crossed over his chest, Madara tapped his fingers over his elbow. “I should have gone after him hours ago,” he groused.

Hikaku audibly bit back a sigh, clearly despairing that Madara was here during his shift on guard duty. “Izuna-sama would be very angry if you’d done that,” he pointed out, not for the first time. “And you might not mind that, Madara-sama, but the clan suffers when the two of you fight.”

Madara snorted; Hikaku was exaggerating. The clan might not like it whenever Izuna and Madara argued and fought in seriousness, but to call that _suffering_ was really too much. 

Besides, Madara had not one but _two_ perfectly valid reason to go haring out after his little brother: not only was there a huge, alien chakra signature practically on top of Izuna’s head, he had also felt Senju Tobirama heading towards him.

The only reason why Madara was still in the compound was that he had started infusing chakra _after_ the Senju had reached Izuna, and he had been completely bamboozled by the fact that Izuna moved _away_ from the exploding star of a chakra signature, and then seemed to grow stronger when Tobirama was next to him. Izuna had originally felt weak enough that Madara had sent word to the medics to prepare to receive him, and then he… wasn’t anymore.

He had been so bewildered by the possibility of the Senju _healing_ Izuna that he had knelt stock-still there on the ground for long minutes. Enough to realise that the Senju wasn’t actually hurting Izuna, and that, for some reason, Izuna was staying where he was, barely inches away from the man who was practically his sworn enemy. And he had continued staying where he was. Like they were _talking_.

It was… well, it was nearly enough to make Madara use a word as trite and Hashirama-like as _hopeful_ to describe how he felt about that.

Izuna had always been one of the most vocal opponents against making peace with the Senju. Madara couldn’t blame him: Izuna never had the chance like he did to see even a single member as a human being instead of part of a faceless, threatening mob with the capability of ending his family. Not to mention that Izuna actually had a point to his objections: the Uchiha could survive on less food, could train their bodies to function on less, but if they had to bow their heads to the Senju for the sake of survival, it would break their pride.

And that would be as terrible as breaking their spines. It would cripple the clan’s spirit entirely, and they wouldn’t ever recover from it.

Sparing a brief moment to search for Hashirama – he was in the Senju compound, most likely blissfully unaware of what that white demon he called brother was doing with Madara’s little brother – he turned his attention back to Izuna’s chakra. Somehow, it had grown into even _greater_ strength, and…

He was heading this way. After over two hours of lingering at the border, Izuna was finally making his way home.

“Tell my brother to find me in my office when he arrives,” Madara said, whirling on his heel. “He should reach the compound in half an hour, if not a little more.” 

“Yes, Madara-sama,” Hikaku said, dipping his head. Madara ignored the relief spiking in his chakra to jump down from the parapets and walk back home.

He had barely made headway into the clan paperwork before he felt Izuna’s chakra signature approach. Taking off his glasses, Madara slipped them into one of his desk drawers. He pinched the bridge of his nose, but the usual headache that came from reading refused to abate. Especially given what he had just read.

The daimyo wanted to increase the tithes that the Uchiha clan had to pay. _Again_, after raising them last year. _And_ after he had refused Madara’s petition to be allowed to take missions from lords and daimyos outside of the Land of Fire. Madara would burn the letter insinuating that the Uchihas’ loyalty to their country was _suspect_ because they wanted to actually earn enough money to buy food for themselves instead of flinging all of it at the daimyo’s feet as _tithes_.

“Oda kept his word,” Izuna said, slamming the door open and starting the conversation in the middle like he always did. Madara smacked his elbow against the edge of the desk in his rush to not look tired in front of his little brother. “There will be provisions for winter.” He paused. “I’ve passed them to Tsurugi.”

Cradling his elbow to his chest, Madara nodded; their store-master would take care of Izuna’s payment. More importantly— “Were you seen?” he demanded, narrowing his eyes.

Izuna gave him a flat look, which Madara supposed he deserved.

“The Fire Daimyo won’t recognise Oda’s claim to the Daimyo seat of the Land of Iron, and probably won’t even deign to receive an envoy from him for long time,” he said, crossing his arms. “If the daimyo knows that Oda won his war with the help of _shinobi_…”

That was even less reason for him to legitimise Oda’s claim, Madara finished for him, which meant that Oda had very little reason to tell the daimyo that Izuna had been there. Which didn’t mean that he _wouldn’t_, but Madara supposed this was what he had to live with, now.

Feeling the headache returning in full force, he resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

They were playing a dangerous game, going against the daimyo’s orders and risking not only their status as nobles but also their loyalty being questioned. Still, they had to do it: the risk of execution was still better than the sure death by starvation if they had to go through winter with neither funds nor provisions.

Not for the first time, Madara cursed his father for applying for noble status in the first place. It brought absolutely nothing but trouble, and the Senju didn’t even seem to acknowledge that they were now, in eyes of the law, the social inferiors of the Uchiha. His father’s plan had cost them so much and brought exactly _zero_ benefit.

Much like this thrice-damned war.

“I’ve had an interesting last few hours,” Izuna said, tone conversational as he sat on the edge of Madara’s desk. When Madara didn’t rearrange his face into a look of surprise quickly enough, Izuna leaned in until their noses were almost touching. His eyes narrowed.

“Nii-san,” he said, voice very soft. “Were you stalking me with your chakra sense again?”

“No,” Madara denied immediately. When Izuna continued staring, Madara crossed his arms. “Look, you should be glad that I didn’t go out after you.”

Especially when Madara had wanted to be the one to take the mission to the Land of Iron in the first place. But Izuna was right: not only was it impossible for the clan’s official head be gone for weeks, Madara was far too recognisable with his hair – and cutting it would make the Senju suspicious when he met them again. Besides, Izuna was far better at stealth and cunning. It was a good choice.

It didn’t mean that Madara had to _like_ it. Or that he hadn’t spent the past month or so fretting over Izuna and stifling the urge to send a summon to check on him and thus blow his cover entirely.

“Good thing you didn’t, or else I wouldn’t have a present for you,” Izuna said, pulling Madara out of his thoughts.

Madara blinked. Izuna was empty-handed, and he definitely didn’t feel the Senju being dragged back here into the Uchiha compound. 

Lips curving up into a smile, Izuna tilted his head to the side. “I found,” he said, nearly over-enunciating every word, “a way for you to get the peace you want, on terms that I can be happy with.”

That wasn’t what Madara expected. He didn’t know what he was, but this wasn’t— his heart was pounding very loudly in his chest. He opened his mouth. “What,” he croaked.

Red flooded into Izuna’s eyes, black narrowing to three familiar tomoes. “Explaining will take too much effort,” Izuna said. “Let me show you.”

“Did you have your Sharingan turned on for the _whole_ time?” Madara yelped. “Izuna, you know that’s—” 

Izuna waved a hand. “Do you want to nag at me, nii-san, or do you want to know what I mean?” His grin widened. “I mean, I can totally tell the white demon that my brother refused to listen to me, so there won’t be peace, ever—”

“Show me,” Madara interrupted him. He swallowed hard. It seemed too good to be true that Izuna would come back one day and offer him a way to peace when he had always been so incredibly against it. “I’ll stop nagging. Show me.”

Maybe people who weren’t Uchiha would find it strange that they would use genjutsu when they were too lazy to use words to explain. But they _were_ Uchiha: the Sharingan was as inextricably a part of them as a shinobi’s hand was a part of him, and just as scary.

Besides, it was very convenient. The Sharingan missed nothing, after all.

Madara stayed silent while watching Izuna’s memories. He wouldn’t ever admit that he yelled and flailed backwards when Senju Tobirama rose out of the Naka River like some kind of vengeful water spirit, no matter how much Izuna laughed at him about it. Izuna had clearly been hallucinating.

It did take him a lot to not start screaming at his brother when Izuna _showed_ Senju Tobirama just how badly off the Uchiha were, though the effort was made easier when the white demon started talking again.

Once the memory finished and the genjutsu ended, Madara flattened his hand on Izuna’s chest. Giving his little brother chakra was habit by now, an act that he didn’t even need to think about.

“So… do you think he’s sincere?” Madara asked. When Izuna raised an eyebrow, he explained, “Look, this proposition could be a trick for him to get to the Uchiha compound and then kill all of us in one shot—” He cut himself off because Izuna had raised the other eyebrow. 

Okay, Izuna _did_ have a point: Madara could see for himself that Tobirama had no ulterior motives for his offer. Izuna had recorded the entire encounter with the Sharingan, and the Sharingan would never miss lies and deception. Especially not on that scale. But the alternative—

A slave. A vassal. A concubine. Senju Tobirama might say that he had pride, but Madara wondered if he would see such a thing falling out of the man if he shook him. What kind of clan heir would so easily offer to debase himself like that? What kind of _man_ would?

Especially since Madara wasn’t even sure if the Senju believed in peace at all. 

Chewing on his lip, he ran everything he had just seen through his mind again. He ignored Izuna sighing and slumping sideways on the desk because this was serious and he refused to be rushed into a decision by overdramatic shows of impatience.

If the Senju was sincere, if this was _real_, then— Madara remembered sitting with Hashirama by the river, talking about their lost brothers. He had never considered that _Tobirama_ had lost his brothers, too, not until today. It was difficult to imagine the Senju crying, or grieving in any way, because he had always been so cold and efficient on the battlefield.

Then again, wasn’t Hashirama hard-eyed and stern-faced when fighting, too? Madara could only see the warmth in those brown eyes whenever they battled each other because he was looking for it. No one within the Uchiha knew Tobirama the same way. 

A slave. A vassal. A concubine. A _symbol of subjugation_. Madara closed his eyes.

“You gave him a week,” he said finally. “Why?”

“It gives us time to sound out the clan,” Izuna said, his gaze heavy on Madara. “If the two of us rush into it without consulting the clan as a whole, it’ll just cause problems in the long run.” 

That was reasonable; the clan had followed Madara (and Izuna) so far because he had always tried to listen to them. Not to the point of letting them run roughshod over him, of course, but ensuring that they knew that their voices were heard and heeded. It was one of the few things that kept his leadership secure even as their finances ran to the ground and Uchihas grew hungrier by the day.

“But that’s not it, is it?” Madara asked.

Izuna closed his eyes. Then he let out a long breath and flopped on the floor, flat on his back with his hands over his face.

“He offered to be a slave,” Izuna said, very softly. “He came to the conclusion that he had to be a slave just like that.” His snapping fingers still made no sound. Madara stifled a snort. “And then he was willing to do it. He agreed to strip himself of the position of clan heir and become powerless while surrounded by enemies. That’s just…” He visibly struggled for words, and then shrugged.

“You’re afraid that he might change his mind if you rushed into it,” Madara offered. “That he might come over here and end up hurting our people.” Or, more likely, try to stab Madara in his sleep, since they would be living in the same house.

(Senju Tobirama would be _his_ concubine. Madara was going to freak out about that later.)

“No,” Izuna said. “Yes.” He covered his face with both hands. “You know what I’m thinking, Nii-san. Tell me you think it’s weird, too.”

Trust Izuna to force him to face what he would rather avoid.

_I am proposing to be a symbol of _subjugation, the white demon had said._ Being subjugated is part of the deal._

He had said it like it was an acceptable consequence. Like his pride and self-esteem and _identity _being crushed into nothing was a price he could easily hand over. Like he was…

The Uchiha made it a rule to think of no member as expendable. They had civilians who would never fight in the war against the Senju; they had shinobi who had never awakened the Sharingan. But each one of them had a role only they could play; even vassals, wretched their fates might be, had their own places within the clan, and were valued as such.

Of course, sacrifices had to be made, whether they be desires or sometimes even lives. But those had to be given up by _choice_, and one made knowing that the clan would be grateful to them for making, and therefore making what they gave up to be even more treasured.

So, no Uchiha would ever conceive selling one of their own for the benefit of the whole. Any hurt that came to one was harm to the entire clan. After all, every single member was loved by one other person, and if love could not make someone precious, then what would?

Perhaps their capacity of love would eventually ruin them. Perhaps their pride would be their downfall. But Madara couldn’t even imagine getting rid of either, because those were the sources of the clan’s strength. It was what made the last few years of war against the Senju possible; it was what allowed Senju Tobirama, one of the greatest sensors in the world, to not even realise that the Uchiha were slowly fading away from deprivation.

Pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes, he let out a sigh. “We can’t expect the Senju to be like us,” he said, voice dull even to his own ears.

Still, it didn’t make sense. Madara knew that Hashirama loved his little brother; hadn’t they bonded over that when they had first met as newly-minted shinobi barely out of childhood? So why would Tobirama…

Madara sighed. The silence had stretched on for long enough that Izuna now had his forearm over his own face, breathing slow and steady enough to be mistaken for sleep.

“I don’t like it,” he said eventually.

Cracking one eye open, Izuna stared. “I would’ve thought that you’d jump at this chance for peace,” he said.

“Don’t get me wrong, I still want that.” If only so that war would stop draining their non-existent coffers. If only so the sacrifices made by those who had died by the hands of the Senju in war didn’t end up with just more lives being sacrificed. “But I don’t like _this_.”

He sighed again when Izuna continued staring. “Look, we have everything to gain,” Madara said. “But those gains come at the cost of the white demon’s sacrifice, and that’s…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “It doesn’t seem fair, Izuna.”

“I’d think it’s the opposite,” Izuna said, voice rather dry. When Madara blinked at him, Izuna sighed, rolling sideways so he was lying on his stomach. “Look at us, Nii-san. Look at the clan. How much have we given up just to keep ourselves going?” He tilted his head, gaze turning sardonic. “Isn’t it someone else’s turn?”

“That’s not the same,” Madara countered immediately. “We choose to keep fighting knowing what it will cost, and those who sacrificed _do _get to benefit from the gains.” 

“You don’t think that Tobirama will benefit from peace?”

No, he didn’t.

A _symbol of subjugation _was just another name for scapegoat, for whipping boy; for a man who would take upon his back an entire clan’s rage and hatred and need for revenge. The Uchiha might not kill him if he was Madara’s concubine, but there were other ways to hurt a man, ways that would tear apart his pride and leave him bleeding for years on the inside. Even the position of a concubine was…

“I think,” Madara said, “he would be faced with war right on his doorstep and in his home.” He dragged a hand through his tangled hair, sighing. “Look, Izuna, I can’t see him benefiting from this in any way, and that’s just… I can’t do that. I just can’t.”

Even the dead would die knowing that they would be remembered and honoured, their names written down for later generations to keep their graves and burn them offerings. A concubine’s name wouldn’t be recorded unless – like in the case of Madara’s mother – their son became his father’s heir. For a _man _to reduce himself in that way was…

It didn’t matter that Tobirama was the white demon, the constant enemy of Madara’s brother who always had the chance to kill him. It didn’t matter that it was _Tobirama_, really; Madara would’ve balked at _anyone_ losing so much to give Madara something he wanted. Or even needed.

(There were very good reasons for Madara to never let Izuna know that his eyes were starting to fail him: Izuna would immediately offer his own, would even encourage the elders to pressure Madara into accepting. Madara would rather _die_ than blind his brother.) 

Izuna didn’t speak for long moments, staring at the worn tatami beneath him. Then, right as Madara’s patience started to fray, he sighed, looking up.

“What about that village idea of yours?”

For the third time since Izuna’s return, Madara stared at his brother. “What?” 

“It’s going to be a harder sell to both the elders and the clan, especially the former,” Izuna said softly, “but it’ll be fair enough to Tobirama that you can accept it.” He sat up, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“If the Senju build a village with us, Tobirama won’t have to give up his family entirely; we’ll all be living the same place, so he’ll get to see them on a regular basis. And having a village, a place where we’re active allies working together instead of uneasy not-enemies, the clan has more incentive to not look at him as an enemy.” He sighed, rubbing his mouth lightly.

“I still think the whole idea is stupid, though.”

Madara opened his mouth, but no words came to him. He had been so focused on making sure that the clan survived and ending the fighting that he hadn’t even thought about the village in years. 

But Izuna remembered. And now, Izuna opened up a path that Madara had long given up on. For him. 

It was nearly enough to make Madara pull a Hashirama and start sobbing.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah, that’ll work.”

Izuna turned to look at him. Even through Madara’s rapidly-blurring vision, he could see his brother’s soft, quiet smile.

“Nii-san,” he said, and squeezed Madara’s hand. Madara immediately tangled their fingers and clenched tight. He didn’t need Izuna to continue to know what he wanted to say:

_I might not like it, I might not even believe in it, but you do, and it’ll make you happy. So, I’ll figure out a way to let you have it_.

“Thank you.” He paused. “I’m still going to kill you, though.”

“What?” Izuna squawked, eyes slamming open. “_Why_?”

“_You _gave the idea for the Senju to offer himself as my concubine,” Madara said. “_My_ concubine, Izuna. Do you remember what that means?”

Izuna opened his mouth. Madara watched, morbidly amused, as red crept up from Izuna’s collar to flood his face. “_Nii-san_!” he howled. “Why are you making me think about that?!”

“_I _have to think about it!” Madara flapped his hands at him. “I have to actually _do_ it!”

“_Stop!_” Izuna shrieked. “Stop making me think about you and the Senju— _argh_!” He flailed. “I know that you are attracted to men, and— and— it’ll be for— for peace!”

Madara looked at him. He thought about telling Izuna that being attracted to _some_ men didn’t mean he found all of them attractive, that he had never even looked at Tobirama properly to know if he was even pleasing to the eye, but he couldn’t get the words out. It was difficult to when he was laughing this hard.

“For peace,” he choked out. “Having sex with the Senju is now for _peace_.”

Izuna buried his face into his hands and screamed. Madara laughed even harder.

(_For peace_, a voice whispered at the back of his mind. _Isn’t one man’s life worth it?_

It would be if he died, because there was honour in death. But this… _this_…. 

_For a village,_ another voice piped up, this one sounding disturbingly like Hashirama’s as a boy. _Where children won’t go to war and our brothers can be happy_.

Yes, Madara thought. If it was for Izuna, if pushing aside his qualms would allow Izuna to live until old age and for Madara to be uncle to his children… he would.)

Sipping her tea, Mito looked at the boy in front of her. Tobirama would never be as uncontrolled as to fidget, but she knew him well enough to not need her chakra sense to feel his nervousness and impatience as he stared somewhere to the left of her face. 

That, she thought, was one of the reasons why she had hated him when they had first met. He had been only nine to her thirteen, but there was a stillness to him that Mito, with her Uzumaki-born passion, hadn’t been able to fully inhabit despite the many, many lessons on propriety that she had been forced to learn as a daughter of Uzushio’s prince. 

But she hated him most because she blamed him for being the one to force her out of her home. Even in his single digits, his affinity with water was already infamous enough to reach the distant shores of Uzushio and compel Mito’s father break his vow to not interfere with the clan wars. Anyone who could pull a large amount of water out of literally nothing was powerful enough to break storms, and so Mizo’s father had reached out to the Senju, offering treasures and Uzushio’s seals in return for Tobirama during the times when the island needed a suiton user of his calibre.

Senju Butsuma was a ruthless negotiator, and demanded a guarantee. And thus, Mito became the bride to Butsuma’s eldest son.

Not that she disliked her life here among the Senju. Still, that childish hatred left its remnants: she always did love to tease her brother-in-law by making him sweat.

Ah, an eye was starting to twitch. Mito stifled her smile.

“You left the compound for nearly three hours,” Mito said, punctuating the sentence with the click of porcelain cup against saucer. “Did something happen?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Tobirama replied immediately, though the tension remained in his shoulders. “I came to you because…” His eyes shifted towards her. “What would Uzushio feel towards renegotiating the contract regarding me with a new party?”

Mito lifted an eyebrow. “You’ll have to be clearer than that, Tobirama,” she said.

“The current contract between Uzushio and the Senju was made based on the assumption that I belong to the Senju,” Tobirama said. “On the occasion that the ownership of my person shifts to another clan, will Uzushio be willing to renegotiate?”

Not for the first time, Mito was reminded that Tobirama’s stillness was a habit ingrained by training and had nothing whatsoever with propriety. She took a deep breath and swallowed back the urge to tell him that he sounded like he was planning to defect.

“It depends,” she said slowly, “on which clan you mean.”

“The Uchiha,” Tobirama replied promptly.

_Calm_, Mito told herself. She couldn’t lose her temper or start panicking right now, not when Tobirama clearly had no idea what he had just implied. She stood and ordered, belatedly, “Stay here,” before heading out of the doors.

Hashirama was in the garden, having retreated back there to give them privacy when his brother had asked to speak to her. He looked up when he heard her footsteps, and there were already streaks of dirt on his cheeks and hands. Mito didn’t let the surge of fondness deter her from striding up to him and grabbing one of his wrists.

“Your brother,” she said, “just implied that that he might be joining the Uchiha.”

Her husband blinked. “Huh?”

After a moment of contemplating the effort it would take her to repeat Tobirama’s words, Mito shook her head. “Come,” she said, wrapping her fingers around his wrist and tugging.

Years of marriage had trained Hashirama to listen and follow, and Mito let herself linger on her luck that she had married a man who was willing to not only respect her opinions, but to act according to them.

Tobirama was still seated in seiza, hands now loosely wrapped around his cup of tea, when Mito dragged Hashirama into the sitting room. He inclined his head towards his elder brother as Hashirama sat down.

Whatever Hashirama saw in his brother’s face straightened his shoulders as if the mantle of clan head had suddenly been laid upon them. “Tobirama,” he said. “Report on what happened during the three hours you left the compound, _including_ what made you leave in the first place.”

Hands falling flat on the chabudai in front of him, Tobirama bowed slightly. “Yes, Anija,” he said.

(When Mito had first moved in, it had been— _difficult_ for her to reconcile the different ways Hashirama would talk to his brother, because he would vacillate wildly between exuberant affection and rigid sternness. It wasn’t the first that she had an issue with, but the second: the Uzumaki had always been unfettered in their care towards family; when Mito’s father had practically sold her off to the Senju to keep their small island safe during typhoon season, he had cried and held her tight and whispered, over and over, how much he did not wish to lose her.

Then she saw how Butsuma talked to his sons, and she understood. She wondered if Hashirama ever did.

She had known, even then, that Tobirama didn’t.)

Her hand had grabbed Hashirama’s elbow the moment Tobirama mentioned the giant chakra signature, like a _youkai_ from legend except that it was real and had chakra and so was exponentially more dangerous because of it. Her grip gentled and shifted to Hashirama’s back when Tobirama assured them that the monster was gone, and she gripped her husband’s haori when the topic shifted to Uchiha Izuna.

Tobirama’s mission reports were always detailed, enough that his voice started running hoarse. Mito refilled his cup, and he paused only to nod to her in thanks and to drink before he returned to rattling off every single word of his and Izuna’s conversation.

Hashirama was very still once he was finished. 

“Why did you want to talk to me, Tobirama?” she asked. “Why not your brother?”

Halfway through draining his third cup of tea, Tobirama cocked his head to the side. “The contract with Uzushio is a potential point of contention in a peace agreement,” he said, putting the cup down. “I require clarification regarding it before I can draft up a treaty.”

Mito closed her eyes and told herself to breathe. “The only point?” 

“Well—”

“Are you _sure_ about this, Tobirama?” Hashirama didn’t resemble one of his mokuton creations anymore. He was trembling all over, enough that Mito had to quickly withdraw her arm so he wouldn’t wrench on it when he stood. “Are you absolutely sure that you want to do this?”

Tobirama blinked up to him, resembling a particularly curious raven. “Of course, Anija,” he said. “I would not have mentioned it to you or Aneue if I was not.”

“Oh,” Hashirama breathed. “But you’d be…” He trailed off. He seemed, Mito noted, unable to finish his sentence.

“Whatever discomforts the Uchiha would wish to deal to me, I can handle them,” Tobirama said, and there was such certainty in his tone that Mito pressed her lips tightly together. “You don’t need to worry for my sake, Anija.”

“I’m not— I—” Hashirama took a deep breath. “Madara is a good man; he _will_ treat you well, I’m sure of it. And I won’t lose you either, because we’ll be building a village together, and we’ll all get to live there—”

Tobirama inhaled sharply. “Anija,” he said. “My apologies; I didn’t bring up the matter of the village to Uchiha Izuna—” 

“No, no, that’s fine,” Hashirama waved a hand. “Madara will remember, and Madara will agree, because when we talked about peace as children, it was always about the village. He hasn’t forgotten. I know he hasn’t.” His head lowered for a moment, hands clenching into fists on top of the chabudai. 

Slowly, Tobirama nodded. “If you believe so, Anija.”

“I’ve always,” Hashirama’s shoulders shook, “believed that you want peace as much as I do, Tobirama.” He lifted his head, and his eyes were wet with tears slowly trailing down his cheeks. “But for you to do this, for you to…” 

Before Mito could grab him, Hashirama leapt over the chabudai, bowling his younger brother over and shoving Tobirama’s face into his shoulder. “Thank you,” he sobbed-yelled into Tobirama’s ears. “Thank you, thank you, _thank you_.”

“Anija—” 

“You’re the best little brother I could ever ask for,” Hashirama continued at the same volume. “You’re making my dream come true, Tobirama, and I’ve never—” 

“It’s only my— _Anija_!”

“Husband,” Mito said, holding onto the teapot and cups. “Do let Tobirama go before he suffocates.”

Hashirama yelped and flung himself backwards, arms pinwheeling. There were red splotches and creases dotting Tobirama’s cheek, and Mito bit back another sigh.

“Go to the garden,” she told her husband. 

“But—” Hashirama tried to protest, bottom lip sticking out.

“I have some matters to speak to Tobirama about,” Mito said, giving him a level stare. “And I am sure that you want to get a start on the letter you must send to Uchiha Madara to formalise the start of peace talks.” 

Sprawled on the ground, Hashirama blinked. “Right,” he said. He made to throw himself on Tobirama again, but this time Mito had hold of his haori, and so Hashirama only made an overly-dramatic, put-upon sigh. “I’ve been chased out of my own sitting room, in my own house,” he groused, but padded out as he was bid. 

Mito ignored him, sipping her tea until she was sure that he was out of earshot. Then she refilled Tobirama’s cup and pushed it towards him.

“It is a difficult thing,” she said, “to be taken from the home you have always known and be surrounded by strangers.” She loosened control over her chakra so he could feel the implications behind her words even if he couldn’t see her thin smile clearly. “It will be even more arduous when they have always been enemies, and you are left without power to defend yourself.”

Tobirama set the cup down, porcelain clinking together quietly. “I am grateful for your concern, Aneue, but those are surely minor inconveniences.”

“You will not have your labs,” Mito pointed out. “There will not be people who understand your ways of speech or what you hold dear. Though they likely will not attack you,” not if Madara had any authority within his clan and the Uchiha were sincere in their desire for peace, “they will still look upon you as an enemy, and thus not grant you any respect.” 

Tilting his head to the side, Tobirama smiled. “You’ve managed to earn the respect that you now command, Aneue. Long ago.”

It wasn’t the same: Mito was the clan heir’s wife; Tobirama would only be a _concubine_. 

“They might,” Mito scrambled for something he might understand, “not give you anything to do.”

“Then it will be up to me to find ways to be useful,” Tobirama returned. He folded his arms in front of his chest. “Our clansmen are tired of war, Aneue, and this will give them respite. It will give them _peace_. What matter the discomforts that I might suffer through?”

What, indeed.

“I did not think,” Mito said softly, “that you believed in peace.”

Tobirama didn’t speak for long moments. Then he chuffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I did not think it was _possible_,” he said. “Because the Uchiha don’t have Anija.” 

Mito waited.

“There is no logic in waging war, Aneue: the costs are too high, and the benefits non-existent. Yet we have done so for centuries, because it had been inconceivable to live otherwise. But Anija built a peaceful world in his mind, and spoke openly about it, and so made it into something that we can possibly work towards.”

He sipped at his tea. “Anija has always said that Madara believed in peace as well, but I have never witnessed any evidence of that belief. On the contrary, Madara seemed more and more of a warmonger with every refusal of Anija’s offer.”

“But now Uchiha Izuna has given you reason to think otherwise,” Mito murmured.

“Uchiha Izuna showed me that peace is more than just the cessation of war,” Tobirama corrected.

Mito blinked. She had never seen it that way. 

Perhaps it was because she had only heard _Hashirama’s_ idea of peace, which was based purely on shared desires. Mito, diplomat-bred, had never quite been able to believe in it, because she knew how little such things mattered on a grand scale.

But a balance of power, deliberately put into place and carefully maintained over time… Yes, that was something she _could_ work towards.

(It wasn’t her husband’s fault; Hashirama was a dreamer, an idealist, and that was one of the best parts of him. Since their marriage, Mito’s role had always been to either ground him or build him wings to fly.

That was one of the ways she had earned the respect of the Senju, after all.)

“I see,” Mito said finally. “If that’s the case, Tobirama, there is only one other thing I’d like to you to consider before I allow you to draft the peace treaty.”

“Aneue—”

“You are to be Uchiha Madara’s _concubine_,” Mito said, steamrolling over him mercilessly. “Do you understand what that means?”

“Of course,” Tobirama nodded. “Madara might be the clan head, but I will be but a concubine. As such, my position—”

“Little brother,” Mito cut him off, wanting to laugh despite herself. “A female concubine is taken to ensure that there will be enough children for the line to flourish. A male concubine can’t be useful that way, and so, your entire purpose is for sex.” She paused and added, very deliberately, “For Madara to have sex with you.”

Tobirama’s eyes went very wide. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish. 

Just as she thought: Tobirama had thought about every single ramification about being a concubine other than the very definition of the term. 

“Oh,” Tobirama said, very faintly. Mito slapped a hand over her mouth to contain her giggles. It had been years since she had seen Tobirama look this poleaxed.

Her brother-in-law made it too easy for people to forget that he was only sixteen. He might have been considered an adult by shinobi terms by the time he was four, but she knew that he was still only a boy with at least one more growth spurt to go through. 

And Tobirama, she knew, liked his books and experiments more than people; hid away for hours after dealing with anything emotional aimed in his direction; had eyes terrible enough that she wasn’t even sure if he could see people well enough to be attracted to their physical forms; shied away from touches from anyone other than his brother and favourite cousin; and had never, in her knowledge, ever shown any inclination towards _feeling_ attraction, much less _wanting_ to have sex.

(And whose gender, position in the clan, and general demeanour made him an impractical choice to be sent on seduction missions. Mito had always thought that fortunate, for he could keep _some _form of innocence. But now…)

Eventually, Tobirama clicked his mouth shut. He closed his eyes and inhaled sharply through his nose. “Then I will do so,” he said. “My… discomfort,” he was speaking through gritted teeth, “with such issues is inconsequential.”

Mito leashed in her chakra, keeping it akin to soft breezes instead of the howling storm it wanted to become. 

(She had cried on her and Hashirama’s wedding night. When Hashirama had shifted from foot to foot and told her earnestly that he had been asking his older cousins how to fake consummating their marriage without doing it – they were both only thirteen, he had said, and that was far, far too young for such things, especially when neither of them wanted it. 

Mito had found the steel she had tried to build into her spine splintering like weak porcelain at those words, and she had wept and clung onto him, blubbering her gratefulness that he would not force her.

Because she might already be a capable kunoichi with hundreds of seals engraved in her mind, but Hashirama had the mokuton. And they were surrounded by his family, while hers risked the survival of their home if they tried to come to her aid.)

“Will you listen,” Mito asked, “if I refuse to allow this?”

“I don’t see why—”

“Will you?” Mito persisted.

Tobirama’s gaze flickered towards the surface of the chabudai for a brief moment. “No,” he said. “Please understand, Aneue: even if Anija refuses – though I cannot think of any reason for him to do so – I will forge his handwriting.” He took a breath and met her eyes directly. “Peace _will _happen.” __  
  
“I see,” Mito said. Her eyes threatened to burn; she blinked them rapidly. “I will have to send a messenger to my father to see if he’s willing to renegotiate,” she said. “But I don’t think they will have an issue if the original terms of the contract are kept.” 

“The Uchiha might ask different things from Uzushio,” Tobirama pointed out.

“As long as the demands are reasonable and Uzushio still gets to have you during typhoon months,” Mito said, “I don’t think my father will object.”

Tobirama nodded crisply. “That will be fortuitous. The Uchiha would see an immediate benefit to this treaty, and have more reason to keep it its terms.”

Mito could no longer stop herself: she reached forward and laid her hand on top of Tobirama’s, squeezing lightly. When Tobirama tilted his head to the side, body stiffening, she withdrew.

“You can draft the peace agreement first, if you like,” she said. “Though your brother and I will likely wish to make amendments.”

There would be at least one clause she would ensure makes it way to the final draft, at least.

“That is to be expected,” Tobirama said. He stood and bowed. “Thank you, Aneue. Please convey to Anija my thanks as well.”

“He is more likely to thank you instead,” Mito murmured, “Effusively.” She hid her mouth behind a hand when Tobirama made a face.

She watched him leave with his back straight and fingers brushing over walls and doorframes. He wouldn’t be able to do that with the Uchiha, she thought. Not if he wanted to keep his near-blindness a secret from them.

Sighing, she stood as well, and headed for the garden. 

There were flowers blooming everywhere, kudzu and nadeshiko and plum blossoms and chrysanthemums. Even the wisterias and peonies had blossomed, the out-of-season petals fragile in the biting wind of late autumn. Mito suppressed a sigh.

Hopefully the damage was contained within the main house. She didn’t want to think how upset Hashirama would be if the civilians in the clan complained that his mokuton was running amok among their mulberry trees again.

Honestly, at this point he needed a large plot of land where he could let loose all of his excess emotions without inconveniencing people and getting upset when he had to placate them. He wouldn’t be exhausted by the effort of fixing the damage then, too. Maybe, she thought, he could build that as part of the village that he was surely dreaming about again.

Speaking of her husband, he couldn’t be seen anywhere. Mito closed her eyes and spread her chakra outwards. His chakra was raw and untamed like an untouched forest, and it was above her head. She pulled her sandals and socks off and started climbing.

He was seated on top of one of his tallest mokuton-made trees, its canopy cresting above even the forest that surrounded the Senju compound and close enough to the sky that clouds brushed the top of his head. His eyes were turned in the direction of the Uchiha compound.

“I always thought Madara and I could do it,” Hashirama said, not turning as she sat down beside him. “We could end this endless cycle of hate.”

Mito hummed under her breath. “You always hoped,” she said.

“Yeah,” Hashirama laughed, leaning sideways to flop onto her lap. A thin branch immediately wrapped around his waist to steady him. “Have I ever told you how I first came up with peace, Mito?”

“Mm, not really,” Mito said, carding her fingers over the long, thick hair now sprawled all over her thighs. “Though I know it has to do with your brothers.”

“Tobirama has always loved to read, you know?” Hashirama said. His eyes were still turned to the Uchiha compound, but the light within them was focused inward. “But Butsuma made him train all the time, until the only spare time he had left was what he got from missing sleep.” His lips twitched upwards. “I thought, if we weren’t fighting a war, then my little brother could have all the time he wanted to read. Then he could read everything he wanted.” His eyes slid closed.

“Everything, not just things that might be useful for training or creating jutsus to kill people. He could read for pleasure without being afraid that Butsuma might burn the scroll or beat him.”

There were many reasons for Mito to be glad that her father-in-law was dead. No matter how that death had come about.

Pushing the thought away, Mito stroked her hand over Hashirama’s hair again. “Husband,” she murmured. “Will you allow me to attend the peace talks?”

Hashirama’s eyes blinked open and focused on her. “Of course,” he said, looking genuinely bewildered. “It’d be terrible if you’re not there, Mito. You know how bad I am with politics.” 

“I’m thinking,” Mito said, “we should include a clause that Tobirama cannot be forced into physical intimacy with anyone, no matter his station. Not even Madara.”

(On that night, Hashirama had patted her hair and tried to awkwardly comfort her as she ruined his wedding kimono with her tears. He clearly had no idea what to do with a crying girl, and she had laughed despite herself. When he sputtered at her, she swallowed the still-lingering terror and thought: 

_I am lucky, because I have married a good man_.)

Hashirama’s brows furrowed. “Madara won’t do that,” he said.

“Still,” Mito said, “it must be in writing.”

“Do you really think it’s necessary?” Hashirama asked.

“Yes.” She knew nothing of Uchiha Madara. And she would not gamble her little brother’s dignity and control over his own body on her husband’s memories of a child who likely no longer existed. 

Not while she was here. Not while she could do something about it.

(She had never doubted her father’s love for her. But he had never thought to include such a clause. He had never even thought about it.)

“Don’t worry, husband. Leave the talking to me.”

“I always do,” Hashirama said, turning his head to brush his lips over her knuckles.

They sat there in silence for a few moments. Then Hashirama spoke again, “Say, Mito…”

“Mm?”

“How many training grounds do you reckon a village will need? Is sixty a bit too much?”

Mito threw her head back and laughed.

“I’m serious! Mitoooooo!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d like to say that there’s no dubcon or non-con that will happen among any of the pairings, including MadaTobi. Madara isn’t a crazy manipulative megalomaniac with delusions with grandeur here. 
> 
> My conception of the Uzushio-Senju agreement is based on having too much knowledge of politics and economics. If Uzushio is an island with no traditional enemies and knowledge of seals that no one else could match, while Senju were constantly at war and is not shown in canon to offer anything or anybody to Uzushio for Mito, _why_ would Uzushio give one of their princesses to the Senju to marry? 
> 
> Because Uzushio is an island. Surrounded by whirlpools. Which means high possibility of typhoons. So, the Senju _do_ have something to offer: the strongest suiton user ever born. It also handily explains why the relationship between Uzushio and Konoha are so distant by the Kushina’s time even though Mito is alive: Tobirama has been dead for decades. Uzushio has no real reason to keep up the alliance beyond the name anymore.


	3. to wear the colours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** This chapter is very _Japanese _in that there’s a lot of politics that’s expressed through image management, symbolism, references, and passive-aggression. I tried to make everything as explicit and clear as I can, but please tell me if there’s anything that’s still confusing.

A travelling shinobi would reach the clan compound owned by the Akimichi two days after they left Senju’s. After a single day, the heavy forests that separated the two territories fell abruptly away to reveal the Naka Valley bracketed by high mountains where tall, trimmed trees cast deep shadows to shelter the sharp-eyed deer within. Following the river’s path led to the Naka Delta, where terraced fields were separated by rows of winter blooms whispering secrets that most thought they had kept in the depths of their minds.

No other shinobi clan owned territories that took more than a day to travel through. The Akimichi were the wealthiest noble shinobi clan within the Land of Fire; maybe even the among all five Elemental Countries.

And no wonder, Touka thought. How many famines had their food pills relieved? How many epidemics had the medicines of the Nara – one of the Akimichi’s vassal clans – eradicated? How many inconvenient heirs and dangerous enemies had the poisons of their other vassal clan, the Yamanaka, gotten rid of?

“Welcome.”

Akimichi Chouta, the tenth clan head of his clan, stood in front of the gates with his hands spread out. He was a huge man, taller and broader than even Hashirama with his oak-like frame. When he bent his back to bow, his loose brown hair fell across his face, thick and heavy like threads of dyed silk.

No other shinobi clan carried their wealth on their bodies like the Akimichi did. No other shinobi clan could afford to do so.

“Thank you for hosting us,” Hashirama said, bowing as well. Then, lifting his head, he swept an arm to the right. “My wife, Mito.” Tucking her hands on her left hip, Mito bent her knees. “My heir, Touka.”

At the cue, Touka bowed, remembering at the last moment that she wasn’t supposed to bend her knees. Not as clan heir.

“My younger sibling,” Hashirama said. Behind him, Tobirama lowered his eyes and mirrored Mito. Except that now, without a given position and deliberately unnamed, he had to bend his knees so much that the top of his head became level with Touka’s shoulder.

“Uzumaki Taji, Uzushio’s representative.” The red-haired man who had arrived at the Senju compound barely a day before they set off to Akimichi lands bowed as well, lower than both Hashirama and Touka had.

“Well met, all of you,” Chouta said, smiling widely enough that dimples distorted the clan markings on his cheeks. “It has been a while, Tobirama-kun. Have you been well?”

Touka bit the inside of her cheek. She knew that Tobirama had worked with members of the Akimichi, Nara, and Yamanaka clans a few times in the past – the three had kept entirely out of the clan wars even as they had raged across the Land of Fire, and were so necessary that no clan would dare cut off ties with them – but for him to _remember_, for him to allow Tobirama his name _and_ grant him a familiar honorific right here in front of his entire clan…. 

It was an unexpected kindness. And Touka wondered just what would Chouta ask for in return.

“Akimichi-sama is kind to ask,” Tobirama murmured, keeping his gaze to the ground. “But yes, I have been.”

“Good,” Chouta nodded. He turned on his heel – shadows shifted at the corners of Touka’s eyes – before beckoning a hand. “Come, Senju-sama. We have prepared rooms for you.”

Hashirama fell into step beside him, and Mito followed three steps behind. Touka held out an arm, and Tobirama took it, wrapping his hand around her elbow like she used to do to him. Behind them, Taji folded his hands into his sleeves.

“You must have moved quickly to get here,” Chouta said casually. “But all of you look as fresh as you would if you had just stepped out of your door.”

Between the Uzumaki-made storage scrolls and Tobirama’s suiton skills, no Senju diplomatic delegation had ever shown up with travel dust on their clothes. Touka had heard Mito giggling over it enough times to know that Chouta’s restrained surprise was a common reaction.

(“I don’t see why we need to do this,” Touka had hissed while hidden behind a Hashirama-grown copse of trees in the middle of an alley.

“Surprise gives rise to disconcertion,” Mito had said, smiling above the cloth she was using to scrub herself clean of dust and dirt. “Disconcertion is a weakness that might lead to an opening for us to use.”

Touka had blinked, the fresh clothes she had packed into the storage scroll almost falling from her hands. “You mean…”

“In a battlefield, a single misstep might lose a life,” Mito had said, tucking her washcloth away and taking Touka’s clothes from her. “In a negotiation, a trip of the tongue might lead to decades of paying unfair tithes.” She threw the kimono over Touka’s bare shoulders and smoothed the heavy silk down. “You are clan heir now, Touka-chan. You must learn this.”

“I don’t want to be,” Touka had blurted out. It was unfair and ungrateful of her, because Tobirama and Mito and even Hashirama had argued with the elders for over a week to give her the position. She was never meant to come anywhere close to the main house – not only was she a woman, she was Hashirama’s cousin by virtue of her mother being Butsuma’s sister, and Senju inheritance had never passed through mothers – and she didn’t want acknowledgment of her skills if it meant Tobirama _leaving_.

The clan might have accepted losing Tobirama for the sake of creating a shinobi village, of making a mark on history that would result in the Senju’s name being forever remembered and honoured for being the progenitors of something that broke a centuries-long pattern, but it didn’t mean that _Touka_ had to easily accept it.

“You are,” Mito had said, inexorable as the tides. “So, Touka-chan, you must learn.”) 

The sound of Hashirama’s loud laugh broke Touka out of her thoughts. “You flatter us, Akimichi-sama,” he smiled. “I’m sure all of us look terrible.” 

Even Hashirama had learned a little. So, Touka would have to, as well.

Chouta led them to a small area some two hundred metres away from the large, sprawling estate that Touka suspected belonged to the Akimichi main branch. They walked through a stone path bracketed by bare-branched trees, and Touka could hear the rhythmic _thud-thud-thud_ of the bamboo on rock that denoted the presence of one of those shishi-odoshi that decorated koi ponds.

In front of her, Mito’s shoulders stiffened. As if he had noticed, Hashirama spoke, “Will the Uchiha live with us, here?”

“Oh no,” Chouta chuckled, shaking his head. “They will be living on the other side of the main estate,” he waved in that direction, “close to the communal kitchens.” His lips twitched up further. “If they are amenable to it, of course. They might not, because those quarters don’t come with a garden.”

Wood and water for the Senju, fire for the Uchiha. That was another favour. What did the Akimichi _want_?

Touka had been annoyed at the Uchiha elders’ insistence that the peace talks happened in the Akimichi clan compound – Hashirama had said that they wanted a noble clan to host because it befitted the Uchiha’s noble status, the Akimichi were closer than the Aburame, and the Hyuuga were out of the question – but now she was apprehensive for entirely different reasons.

“I see,” Hashirama said. Then he stopped and bowed again, hands flat by his sides. “Thank you for your thoughtfulness, Akimichi-sama.”

“Our clans have worked in tandem many times, Hashirama-sama,” Chouta said, sounding amused. “Will you not use my given name?”

“Chouta-sama,” Hashirama amended almost immediately.

Nodding, Chouta folded his hands into his heavy sleeves. “I will leave you to your preparations,” he said. “Someone will come to inform you once the Uchiha have arrived.”

As one, the Senju and their Uzumaki companion bowed or bent their knees. Once Chouta was out of sight – Touka didn’t think that he had stopped watching, not by far – Mito straightened. “Taji,” she said, looking at the member of the clan of her birth. “Will you please leave us?”

“Mito-hime-sama,” Taji acknowledged. Then he turned on his heel and left in the opposite direction from Chouta.

It might be Hashirama who opened the door, but Mito swept inside first, the hem of her kimono not even touching the ground. Touka, with Tobirama still on her arm, followed. Hashirama closed the door and flattened his palm against it, vines uncoiling from his sleeve to take root in the stone walls and spread over the wooden door.

No one would be able to enter or exit, now.

“They want to join the village,” Hashirama said even before they had all finished taking off their shoes, clearly unable to contain himself. “I’m _sure_ of it.”

“No one knows about the village except for the four of us, Madara, and Izuna,” Tobirama pointed out. “Do you suspect an information leak?”

Hashirama shook his head rapidly. “No! But—” 

“Akimichi-sama will tell us what he wants from us in his own time,” Mito said. “Tobirama, how far away are the Uchiha, and how many of them are there?”

“Less than half an hour from the main gates,” Tobirama answered promptly. “A party of four: Madara, Izuna, an Uchiha whose chakra I recognise from the battlefield, and one more I don’t.”

Touka blinked. Tobirama remembered almost every chakra signature he spent any amount of time around. For him to not know a chakra signature from the battlefield, that meant that this Uchiha had only appeared there once, or had never gone before.

Did the Uchiha bring a _civilian_?

(She tried to dismiss how Tobirama had taken to calling the Uchiha by only their given names ever since the peace talks had been confirmed to be happening. She didn’t want to think too much about it.)

“We don’t have much time, then,” Mito said, and pulled out a small storage scroll from her voluminous sleeves.

Tobirama didn’t quite so much glance at it, but Hashirama stared before he closed his eyes. Touka dug her nails into her palms; if he felt sad about this, then why would he… She hissed out a breath.

“Touka-nee,” Tobirama said, stepping in front of her. With two smooth motions, he shrugged off his haori and loosened his obi, and turned until his back was to her.

Touka reached out and pulled them off him, and loosened the inner knots of his kimono before tugging that off as well. As Tobirama stood there, dressed in nothing but his nagajuban, Touka passed the clothes to Mito, and took the scroll from the older woman’s hands. One scrape of her nail against heavy paper, and a wealth of silk spilled into her hands. Hashirama grabbed the scroll before it could fall to the floor, but Touka was no longer paying him any attention.

She took a single step until her breath almost touched the exposed nape of Tobirama’s neck, and rose up to her tiptoes. Her hands found the collar of the kimono, and she slid one arm then the other into the sleeves. She resisted the urge to wrap the right side over the left – he was not going to his death, he was _not_ – and folded it the correct way. Tobirama raised his arms so silk would not drag onto the ground, and Touka watched out of the corner of her eye as Hashirama stepped forward to hold his wrists. She knotted the strings inside the kimono.

Mito handed her the obi, and Touka hesitated. She didn’t have as much experience as Mito with this, but Tobirama had asked _her_. She was clan heir now; she had replaced him. Touka bit the inside of her cheek and pushed the thought away.

One end over Tobirama’s right shoulder, fold diagonally, wrap twice… she had gone through lessons for this when she was a child, before she had picked up a naginata and refused to put it down, and the knowledge lingered.

The makura pillow that Mito had chosen was wider than most, custom-made to fit Tobirama’s broad shoulders. Mito helped her hold it in place until she had tucked it into the obi and covered it with the obi-age. Another few folds – more difficult than before, because her hands had started to shake – and she knotted the obi-jime in front of him.

Hashirama let go, but Tobirama’s elbows remained bent, keeping his pristine sleeves away from the wooden floorboards.

“Aneue,” Tobirama murmured.

Mito nodded. The storage scroll came from Hashirama’s sleeve this time, and Mito broke the seal with a red-painted nail.

The hairpiece was of Uzushio’s style: burnished silver twisted into two twining dragons with heads tilted up as if trying to break free and soar towards the skies. The pearls – one black, one white – that served as their eyes glimmered in the dull light pouring in from the paper-covered ranma above the walls. 

Touka knew from careless handling that the scales and tips of the tails were sharp enough to cut skin, but Mito held it with ease of experience. As Tobirama ducked down, she placed it on top of his head. 

Mito stepped back, and Hashirama took her place. A brush of his fingers, and vines of verdant green grew from his sleeves to wind around Tobirama’s head, twisting around the headpiece and covering the sharp edges even while they kept it in place. Then he took a piece of silk from Mito’s hand without turning his eyes from his brother, and settled it over the hairpiece.

Every inch of Tobirama’s skin was covered. The veil shielded him from the top of his head to his collarbones, where the weighted hems swung as he tilted his head from side to side. The kimono was in the style of a furisode, its sleeves long enough to conceal his fingers and swing down to his ankles.

And every single stitch of cloth was white. Not the dull white of linen funeral shrouds, but the gleaming, shimmering white of silk that symbolised purity.

The outfit had been Mito’s idea. Hashirama had protested at first, but when Mito told him her reasoning, his eyes had hardened, and he had agreed. 

Even Hashirama had understood the need to remind the Uchiha of the _concession_ that the Senju was making. One which was to their disadvantage to make, but one that they had chosen to give to create a better future.

(Maybe she should be a little grateful to those Uchiha elders for their insistence on having these talks at the Akimichi’s: the wealth of the famine-breakers had reminded the Senju’s own elders of the impossibility of exceeding the Akimichi in terms of the power brought by wealth. But if the Akimichi willingly submitted to them, then they could take that wealth for their own. 

And how could they make the Akimichi do so? A shinobi village comprising of all clans, a consolidated power that would make their servitude to the Fire Daimyo an obvious matter of choice instead of circumstances. One that, the Senju understood, would ensure that they would never come be forced under the Daimyo’s thumb again.)

The Uchiha were necessary for that, and so, Touka thought grimly, they would not be allowed to refuse. 

Now taking his little brother’s wrists, Hashirama urged, “Try to walk.”

“Anija,” Tobirama said, exasperated. He sounded so utterly himself underneath the strange clothes he had never worn that Touka had to bite the inside of her cheek so she would not punch something. Preferably Uchiha Madara’s face.

“Indulge me, Tobirama,” Hashirama said, his smile was twisted into a grief that, in Touka’s opinion, he didn’t deserve to feel.

Tobirama sighed and, like always with Hashirama, he obeyed. His first step was steady, and the second even more so because he pulled himself free of his older brother’s grip. He walked around the room with his hands folded together inside his sleeves, not even needing to brush against the stone walls. He bumped against absolutely nothing.

“You might want to walk a little slower,” Mito urged gently.

“I don’t _need_ to see,” Tobirama grumbled.

“Neither do we need the Uchiha to suspect that you don’t,” Mito pointed out.

“If I am to live with them—” Tobirama started.

“No.” To Touka’s surprise, it was Hashirama who spoke. “Not yet, Tobirama. I… hope that the peace agreement goes through, and even more that the village will be built. But things are still uncertain right now, and—”

“Would you have such objections if it’s anyone else in the clan, Anija?” Tobirama demanded. “You would have insisted that to show such a weakness would be a reason for the Uchiha to trust us.”

“I—” Hashirama clicked his teeth together. “It’s _you_, Tobirama.”

“A clan head must be objective,” Tobirama said, unrelenting like the crashing waves against a cliff. “He cannot be seen to so greatly favour those around him that it comes to the detriment of the whole.”

“But I am your elder brother,” Hashirama said, desperation and frustration coiling into his voice. “Am I not allowed to worry, as a brother?”

“Why?” The veil swayed as Tobirama cocked his head to the side. “It is not _logical_, Anija: if you trust the Uchiha to keep the peace agreement – and you must, or else signing one will have no purpose – you must also trust them to not kill me the moment I step into their compound.”

Rubbing his hands over his face, Hashirama sighed. “Emotions can’t be rationalised away like that, little brother.”

“Have fewer of them,” Tobirama said, blunt. “They’re annoying.”

Touka couldn’t help herself: she _laughed_, the sound rocking through her chest and dislodging the weight that had settled there ever since she had heard about this plan nearly a full month ago. Not enough to make it disappear, but enough to make the heaviness easier to bear.

Because Hashirama and Tobirama had always argued like this. Because they still _could_, now, after Tobirama had stripped himself of his position of clan heir, when all of them were here to sell him to the Uchiha for the sake of peace. Because, despite everything that said that he should, Tobirama had not changed.

She knew he was willing; he was the one who had told her about his plans. But Tobirama had agreed to far too many things he shouldn’t have, things that hurt and harmed him, and Touka… Well, she wouldn’t disrespect him as much as to _dismiss_ his consent, but she had her doubts.

“Hey, Tobirama,” Hashirama said suddenly. When Touka glanced at him, his growing smile made her eyes narrow. 

“Madara is _very_ emotional,” he continued. “Very loud. Flails a great deal.” There was a ridiculous amount of glee in his voice. “It might be an Uchiha thing.”

Touka couldn’t see Tobirama’s face, but she _knew_ the grimace he was making: the one that made his cheeks puff out while his lips pressed together and his brows furrowed. The face that made him look like a displeased kitten.

“There’s going to be so much emotion.” Hashirama’s grin was nearly big enough to eat his face. “_Everywhere_.”

Tobirama flipped his own veil up and— _there_ was that face. Even the glare he was giving Hashirama couldn’t detract from how adorable he looked like that.

Slamming a shoulder against the nearest wall, Touka _cackled_. Mito had given up trying to hide her giggles behind her hand; she had taken out a fan from somewhere, and was holding it over her face.

“_Anija_,” Tobirama snarled.

“You can’t dump a waterfall on me because I need to look decent,” Hashirama sang. “And because you know I’m right.”

A muscle at Tobirama’s jaw twitched. A wave smacked Hashirama right across his smirking face, making him yelp and flail backwards. Then the water vanished, _all _of it; Hashirama’s face wasn’t even wet.

“Fix your hair, Anija,” Tobirama said, throwing his sleeves back to cover his hands. “It’s messy.”

Hashirama patted frantically at the top of his head. There were just a few flyaway strands, and he fixed them quickly enough. Then his gaze flicked from Touka to Mito before finally landing on his brother. “Better?”

He wasn’t talking about his hair.

Tobirama’s shoulders shifted minutely. The corners of his eyes turned up. Hashirama moved.

The hug was gentle, nonetheless, Hashirama careful for once to not waste all the time they had spent on Tobirama’s outfit. And Tobirama sighed, tilting his chin up to hook it over his big brother’s shoulder. Hashirama turned his head, and the kiss he pressed onto Tobirama’s temple was soft and lingering.

Touka walked over. Hashirama shifted his hands to give her space, and she embraced Tobirama from behind, burying her face into his spiky white hair. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mito lower her fan so her smile could be seen, and knew even without chakra sense that Mito had lowered her control enough that her joy and relief could be felt. 

(Who would do that for him, among the Uchiha? Who would find ways like these to make him feel comfortable and safe? Who would make the effort to build him a _home_ among those fire demons?

Because that was what they were. And the Senju shouldn’t need them to make the village happen.

But they did. Without the Uchiha, without their centuries-long enemies joining forces with them, how could the other clans wish to join the village? Without the Uchiha supposedly standing on equal ground on the Senju but being beholden to them nonetheless, why would the other shinobi clans of the Land of Fire submit to the Senju’s control?

Without the Uchiha, how could the Senju create a dynasty of their own, one that had never existed in the entire thousand-year history of nindo and ninshu?

Hashirama did not see it that way, and refused to acknowledge it when it was brought up to him. But Touka knew the truth. She knew that Mito did, too.

That was the tipping point the two of them had used to get the elders and the clan as a whole to agree on selling Tobirama to the Uchiha, after all.)

“Thank you,” Hashirama said for three of them. 

Tobirama sighed. “The Uchiha are here. Have been here for a while,” he said. “Taji’s almost at the door. I’m sure he’s here to inform us.”

“Stay,” Mito said. “I’ll speak to him.”

Behind Touka’s back, Hashirama’s fingers twitched. The vines at the door retreated. Touka watched as Mito stepped outside before she closed her eyes.

It was rare enough that Tobirama would allow for such encroachment into his personal space, and Touka wanted to enjoy it. Especially since she didn’t know when she could have it again.

(One man for a new world. One man for an indelible mark on history. A fair trade. Especially since Tobirama didn’t have to die for it. 

But Touka couldn’t help but be bitter. 

Why did it have to be _her_ little cousin? Why did it have to be the only younger cousin she had left?) 

“I feel _disgusting_,” Izuna complained, dragging his brush over his hair. “Why can’t we have a hot bath before meeting the Senju?”

“The Senju would surely be as travel-worn as we are, Izuna-sama,” Tsurugi, store-master and representative of the civilian branches in the clan, tried to placate him.

“It’s not a good idea to let even an hour pass without meeting the Senju now that we’re here,” Hikaku reminded, not even trying to hide the roll of his eyes. “When was the last time any of our clan had been in such close proximity with a member of theirs without fighting?” He paused. “Aside from the conversation,” his gaze slid towards Izuna, “that led to this, of course.”

Ignoring Hikaku, Izuna stared at the leaves and twigs on the ground. The Senju and Uchiha never met at the capital – noble shinobi clans went in spring, while non-noble ones visited in late summer – so… “When Nii-san met Hashirama at the river.”

“Yeah, and how long ago was _that_?” Madara drawled, arching an eyebrow at him. He clearly wasn’t bothering with neatening his hair, instead pulling the strands – tangles and dirt and leaves and all – into a topknot and tying it with a rough hemp string. “Stop whining already, Izuna, and leave your vanity for another day.” 

There was a layer of dust and dirt on the floor from when Madara had taken off his kimono to flap it out before putting it back on. His older brother was _disgusting_. Izuna would have to do something about that.

“I like looking _decent_,” he corrected. “That’s _not_ being vain.”

Whatever retort Madara was about to make was interrupted at a knock on the door. Madara’s gaze shifted immediately to Tsurugi, and the oldest of the four of them nodded.

The Yamanaka – clan affiliation made clear by the gold of his hair – bowed low. He kept his eyes lowered as he said, “Akimichi Chouta-sama bids Uchiha-sama and his companions to join him in the main house for refreshments.” He paused. “A messenger has been sent to inform Senju-sama as well.”

“How many people did Hashirama bring?” Madara asked, tone casual and hands busy adjusting the collar of his kimono.

“Four guests from the Senju and a representative from the Uzumaki of Uzushio,” the Yamanaka replied in the same dull voice.

Izuna frowned. They might have been warned about the Uzumaki’s presence – waiting for Uzushio to send a representative why the talks were happening a month after Izuna’s meeting with Tobirama instead of the two weeks Madara had wanted – but Hashirama had been irritatingly close-mouthed about the reasons why the Uzumaki had any stake in the peace between the Senju and Uchiha.

At least conceding to the Senju’s timeline gave the Uchiha the right to decide on the location.

“Understood,” Madara was saying. “We are ready.”

No, he _wasn’t_; Izuna carefully kept his face blank even as he stepped forward, grabbing his older brother by the shoulders. “One moment, please.” One flick of his eyes to Hikaku had the younger man closing the door in the Yamanaka’s face.

“Izuna…” Madara growled.

“Shut up,” Izuna snapped. “You might not care about the Senju’s reputation for being pristine whenever they appeared in front of high-ranking people, but _I do_.” He brushed dirt and dust from Madara’s kimono – how could Madara have missed _this _many spots when he took it off, Izuna couldn’t figure out. “Let them wait; I am not letting you appear in front of them looking like a bedraggled countryside shinobi.”

“But we _are _countryside shinobi,” Madara narrowed his eyes. “What’s there to be ashamed about?”

“Aside from looking horribly desperate?” Izuna shot back, arch. “Which destroys any claim of our superiority to the Senju.” Unknotting Madara’s hakama, he pulled it down – Hikaku was staring at the ceiling, while Tsurugi found a spot on the nearby wall fascinating – and flapped the dust off it before dragging it up again, tucking the kimono in properly so the waistband was now straight. “Which _then_ means that these talks become a farce.”

Madara scowled. “We don’t need to—”

“We _do_,” Izuna cut him off. “Listen, Nii-san, I know you don’t like the little details, but that’s what the second heir is for.” Or, well, the spare was to fill in the faults of the heir. Same difference, really. “Let me do my _job_.”

“When did your job become dressing me like a doll?” Madara asked, clearly disgruntled. But he was turning around to let Izuna pick the debris of the road from his hair, so his feelings about this didn’t matter.

“My job is to make sure that Uchiha diplomacy doesn’t begin and end with you screaming at people’s faces,” Izuna said, voice dry. 

Madara huffed, but didn’t make any other protest. Which was good, because Izuna didn’t think he could gag his older brother with what he had available. 

He wished that at least one Uchiha had any skill with suiton jutsu, because then he could dump a waterfall on the mess that Madara called hair and use katon to steam it straight. Given what he had to work with, though, he could only make sure that the tangles looked somewhat deliberate before he bundled the entire pile up into a bun and pinned the strands in place with an enamel clip shaped and painted like the uchiwa fan. 

“Hands,” he demanded. When Madara turned back to face him, still scowling, Izuna dug the dirt from the nails as he quickly as he could. He _really_ wished they had some water, but his own sleeves would have to do for cleaning Madara’s face, neck, and hands.

For the finishing touch: he held out his hand, and Tsurugi passed him the tiny storage scroll. He broke off the seal and withdrew the clean haori, the cloth flaring out as he drew it behind Madara’s back and draped it over his shoulders. He would’ve brought more clean clothes, but these tiny ones could hold onto a single change for each person along with the haori, and bringing one of the massive ones meant to store a carriage’s worth of goods was ridiculous overkill and make them look like poor shinobi who didn’t know how to pack.

Once he made sure that Madara’s haori sleeves were folded in straight lines, he stepped back and looked at him. Madara wasn’t _clean_ exactly, but he at least looked _decent_. It didn’t matter what the rest of them looked like – Izuna knew he resembled something one of the clan cats had dragged in, and Hikaku and Tsurugi were worse – as long as the clan head _somewhat _observed the rules of propriety.

“You can go out in public now, Nii-san,” Izuna said, satisfied.

“I’m _really_ tempted to throw you into one of the Akimichi’s cooking pots now,” Madara threatened, but there was a softness in his eyes that told Izuna that his efforts were appreciated. He turned to Tsurugi and nodded.

The Yamanaka hadn’t shifted position at all. Izuna looked at him. “Please lead us, Yamanaka-san,” he said. 

Bowing low enough that his back became parallel to the ground, the Yamanka murmured, “This lowly one is honoured to escort you.” 

Right; that title had been too polite. _Gods above_, Izuna hated dealing with other clans outside of the battlefield. Passive-aggressive formality like this grated on his nerves the same way the screech of the flat of a blade scraping against a sharp stone did. He stifled a shudder and followed Madara out of the door, walking beside him once there was space. Hikaku covered his back from three steps away, and Tsurugi took the spot next to him.

He had to fight to keep his eyebrow from twitching when the Yamanaka led them into Chouta’s home. The entranceway was decorated by a huge set of antlers clearly from Nara deer, and below it was an ikebana arrangement that used mostly sunflowers and penoies, flowers clearly out-of-season and grown in Yamanaka greenhouses. As they moved into the main hall, he saw, hanging on the walls: a Hyuuga painting, an Aburame hive preserved in a block of solid amber, an Inuzuka dog-fur coat, a Hagoromo feather fan, a Fuuma shuriken, and even a white wolf pelt from the reclusive, nomadic Hatake clan. 

Once inside the dining room, he hissed out a long, irritated breath. He could recognise Hashirama anywhere, and he was sitting right beneath an Uchiha-made battle fan. And, right above where Madara was supposed to sit was a framed silk furisode, the Naka River and its surrounding cliffs painted on it making it clear that it was Senju work.

Trophies of diplomacy. Izuna was _really_ glad that he insisted on cleaning Madara up, now.

True to form, his older brother didn’t seem to notice the symbolic messages all over him as he folded into seiza at his assigned seat, close to the host’s position at the front of the room. Izuna took the place to his right, and Hikaku took the one next to him, and Tsurugi had the seat closest to the door on Hikaku’s other side.

He scanned the room. Hashirama was opposite Madara, and the red-haired woman Izuna supposed was his Uzumaki wife was to his side. A man with hair the same shade was closest to the door, and—

Hikaku was seated opposite a _woman_. Dark-haired with hints of Senju blood in the line of her jaw and the sharp angles of her mouth. She was _not_ supposed to be seated there. That seat should be—

“Where’s Tobirama?” 

That wasn’t only his voice. That was Madara’s too. 

“Madara,” Hashirama was smiling widely. He _knew_ that expression; it was how Hashirama had always looked when he was offering his hand in the middle of a battlefield. “I am very glad to see you, and I truly appreciate that we have a chance to sit together here, in the same room, to speak to each other about peace.”

“Tobirama,” Madara said, eyes narrowing, “is supposed to be seated right there.” He swept his arm towards the woman to the left of Hashirama’s wife. “Or have you not brought your brother, Hashirama?”

“I have written that my heir will accompany me,” Hashirama said. His smile looked very odd now, a curve of lips that made Izuna’s hand itch for a kunai. “Touka is seated exactly where she should be.”

Wait, _what_?

Madara opened his mouth, but before he could say a word, Hashirama folded his hands into his sleeves.

“Touka-kun,” he said, eyes on Madara. “Will you please bring my younger sibling into the room?”

“Yes, Hashirama-sama,” the woman – _Touka_ – murmured. She stood up and swept out of the room in a fluid motion that would be distracting if Izuna wasn’t trying to parse Hashirama’s expression.

“Chouta-sama,” Madara said, suddenly turning away from Hashirama to look at their host. “Forgive my rudeness for not greeting you first.”

Akimichi Chouta waved a hand. “Such formalities are unnecessary between us, Madara-sama,” the man said. “I can see that you had more pressing concerns.”

Izuna stifled the instinctive wince. That… wasn’t good. Before he could apologise for his older brother, however, paper rattled in their frame as the door to the sitting room slid back. 

Madara was gaping, and Izuna couldn’t even scold him for it, because he was doing the same. Even Hikaku was wide-eyed; only Tsurugi managed to keep his face straight.

The height of the figure behind the Touka woman was right for Tobirama, Izuna thought dazedly. What he could see of the shoulders were correct, too, but the clothes…

Had the Senju dressed Tobirama up like a _bride_? Izuna wanted to laugh, because Tobirama was to be a concubine, and those were never allowed to wear a kakeshita or irouchikake, much less a shiromuku. For the Senju to _presume_—

No, Izuna realised; that wasn’t a shiromuku that Tobirama was wearing. Though the brilliant purity of the white silk fitted, the style of the kimono was wrong. And the veil covering the face was nothing like a wataboshi – there was no opening that allowed the face to be seen if looked at from right ahead. It was a piece of solid cloth instead, and—

Madara made a rattling sound in his throat at the same time Hikaku gasped. Izuna stayed silent, but his throat had gone very dry, because he recognised the outfit. Gods above, he knew exactly what it _meant_.

This was what a hitobashira wore right before they were buried alive to ensure that a building stood for centuries. It was what women were given before they were lowered with rocks tied to their feet into the deepest banks of a river to stop it from overflowing during heavy rains. 

The Senju had dressed Tobirama like a _sacrifice_. 

And the Touka woman was leading him to her seat. No, not _her_ seat, but the place behind it, such that Tobirama was bracketed by the two women. Then, as Izuna watched in horror, Tobirama’s hands peeked from behind his voluminous, furisode-styled sleeves. They flattened on the floor, thumbs and index fingers touching to form a diamond, and he lowered his head until the hem of his veil pooled on the tatami.

He did not speak.

“Like I said, Madara,” Hashirama said, that odd smile widening, “I appreciate that we have a chance to sit here together to talk about peace.”

This was a political _masterstroke_: not only had the Senju stripped Tobirama of his title as heir, he was dressed as a sacrifice and given the seat of a servant. Not only did it show the sincerity of their desire for peace, it was a _statement_ of just how far they would go to make sure it became reality. Before a single word had been said, the Senju had already demolished any minor arguments that the Uchiha could make to refuse.

Izuna needed a drink.

_Who_ came up with this? It couldn’t be Hashirama; that man was a diplomatic sledgehammer in the same way Madara was. Not Tobirama either: he was too blunt, too socially unaware – Izuna couldn’t forget how strange he had seemed in the conversation that started all of this – and he moved like he had rehearsed this.

Wait, did that mean that the Akimichi was already siding with the Senju? How else could Tobirama move without sight – that veil was heavy silk, and only the Sharingan could allow anything to be seen from behind it – and they supposedly had just arrived. Did they manage to somehow mess with Madara’s sensor abilities—

“Chouta-sama.” Madara’s voice cut through Izuna’s spiralling thoughts. When Izuna whirled to look at him, his older brother had his hands forming a diamond on the tatami and his chin lowered. “May the Uchiha request a seat for Senju Tobirama-sama?”

Sometimes Izuna despaired of Madara’s political abilities. Sometimes he was blown away by how _good_ he was at this.

(Not that Madara had ever done it deliberately; that was what made every moment of brilliance so effective. Madara was always absolutely _sincere_.)

“Of course,” Chouta murmured. “Where do you have in mind, Madara-sama?”

“If the Senju’s oku-sama,” oh, Madara didn’t know Hashirama’s wife’s name either, “does not mind, I request that he be seated between her and Touka-san.” In the seat Tobirama was supposed to have anyway.

“Mito-hime?” Chouta turned.

“I will not be disinclined,” Hashirama’s wife – _Mito_; the most likely candidate to have come up with all of this – said.

Chouta waved a hand. Two servants came forward. Izuna watched the Senju as seats were shifted, and took note of how Touka seemed to be the one in charge of making sure that Tobirama didn’t trip over his own feet as he rose from his knees. When the tables had been settled into position, Mito withdrew a fan from her sleeve.

“If Madara-sama does not mind?” she prompted.

Izuna could tell that Madara had no idea what she meant. To his credit, he didn’t ask. “I do not.”

Leaning over to Tobirama’s seat, Mito touched the tip of her fan to the hem of the veil. 

_Oh_. She asked _Madara’s _permission because Tobirama was supposed to be _his_ concubine, and his face could only be shown to people that Madara allowed to see it. 

They were acting like the agreement had already been passed, Izuna grumbled to himself, which was— he would’ve continued that thought if Mito hadn’t flipped the veil backwards in a single fluid motion.

It wasn’t Tobirama’s face – Izuna had seen that hundreds of times, and it hadn’t changed. It was the _crown_ in his hair, held in place with vines clearly made by mokuton. The vines he could figure out – the Senju staking their claim – but the dragons and the pearls he couldn’t—

“Uzumaki Taji of Uzushio,” the red-haired man spoke up suddenly, “requests to negotiate a contract with Uchiha-sama regarding arashi no shihaisha-sama.”

Tobirama’s eye gave the smallest of twitches, but Izuna was distracted from what it could mean, because he was reeling, _again_, from the title that the Uzumaki had used:

Ruler of storms. 

The Uzumaki of Uzushio had not only given Tobirama a title, but it was one akin to that which was owned by _Susano’o-no-mikoto himself_.

Suddenly, Izuna remembered that Tobirama was reputed to be the strongest suiton user ever born. 

“I thought I am here for the Senju,” Madara said, voice calmer than Izuna could have made his own sound right now.

Irritatingly, the Uzumaki remained unfazed. “Uzushio’s alliance with the Senju is based on Mito-hime-sama’s marriage to Hashirama-sama, and Uzushio’s borrowing of arashi no shihaisha-sama during typhoon season every year,” he said. “Any peace agreement between the Senju and Uchiha involving a change in the clan allegiance of arashi no shihaisha-sama must prioritise Uzushio.”

“Why?” Madara arched an eyebrow.

“Because of the Uzushio’s current contract with the Senju, Uchiha-sama,” the Uzumaki said.

Madara waved an impatient hand, and the man nodded, straightening.

“Currently, Uzushio offers twenty scrolls of sealing knowledge; two kilograms each of white and black pearls; a hundred kilograms of abalone; two hundred kilograms of salt; five hundred kilograms each of oysters, scallops, and clams; a thousand kilograms each of shrimp, tuna, mackerel, bonito, snapper, yellowtail, sea bass, and dried kelp,” he paused very deliberately, “every year in August, in return for having arashi no shihaisha-sama for two months.”

That was so much fish. That was so much _food_. That was so much _luxury _food that would be wanted even in the _capital_.

And the pearls— not only would those solve their money issues so thoroughly that the Uchiha wouldn’t fear being poor _ever again_, but the jewellery-smiths who had been forced into forging weapons could make jewellery again, because pearls when sold inland were more valuable than raw silver and gold.

Izuna couldn’t breathe. Beside him, Hikaku choked on nothing. Even Tsurugi had gone completely still.

Madara let out a long breath. “If,” he sounded like he was being slowly strangled, “we refuse the sealing knowledge, and instead ask for storage scrolls and goods from the sea every season, will Uzushio be amenable?”

He was going to do everything his brother asked him to for the whole of the next five years without complaining. For the rest of _forever_.

Uzumaki Taji’s eyebrows furrowed for a moment. “We prize our scrolls of sealing knowledge higher than any goods from the sea,” he said thoughtfully. 

Izuna’s fingers tightened on the edge of the table.

“The same amount of sea goods as before, but four times more, for now we will deliver it every season instead of once a year,” the Uzumaki said. _Four times_, Izuna’s brain screamed. _Four times_! “And the number of storage scrolls will be up to you, Uchiha-sama.”

Madara named a number that would give every single Uchiha clan member, shinobi and civilian alike, twenty scrolls of each size. It was more than what was necessary; far more than the Uchiha had even before paying tithes to the daimyo had run their finances to the ground. It was _unreasonable_.

The Uzumaki _shrugged_. “That is fine.”

Izuna wanted to join Tsurugi in crying. Their shinobi didn’t have to worry about under-packing for missions, or carting around unnecessarily huge scrolls now. They would even have extras to be used within the house!

“What will you ask from us?” Madara asked.

“Arashi no shihaisha-sama must be in Uzushio every August and September, and he must stay if the threat of typhoons lasts longer than that,” the Uzumaki said. 

Well, that explained why he was always missing from the battles that took place in late summer and early autumn. Not that there were usually battles during that time, especially these past few years.

Hashirama likely had something to do with that.

“Given the travelling time between your region and Uzushio, Uchiha-sama,” the Uzumaki continued, “it means that arashi no shihaisha-sama will be away from your side for ten weeks every year. At least.”

No _wonder_ Uzumaki Mito had ended up marrying Hashirama if – as Izuna suspected – this contract was made by the Senju’s previous clan head. No father would like having his son away from him for such a long time, especially if he would be battling _typhoons_. No clan head would allow any of the clan members accompanying his son to drown amidst storms without some sort of guarantee, either. 

Plus, he had to _travel there_, and roads during their era of war were always treacherous. Stronger shinobi didn’t have to worry about bandits or highwaymen, but they _did_ have to fear bounty hunters.

“Will Uzushio host the Uchiha contingent accompanying Tobirama during his trips?” Madara asked.

Hashirama was staring at him, mouth wide open, Izuna noted. So was Touka, though she was a little graceful; bug-eyed but with her mouth closed. Was the question _that_ unexpected? 

“Arashi no shihaisha-sama has never brought anyone with him,” the Uzumaki said. Wait, what the _fuck_? Tobirama made these trips alone? Well, he was a strong shinobi, but— _when_ was this contract made? 

Did Tobirama travel for a week to Uzushio and back on his own _as a child_? Izuna quickly revised his ideas about just why the Senju had demanded so much from Uzushio for Tobirama.

“But any companion of his will be an honoured guest in Uzushio, and treated as such,” the Uzumaki continued.

“That is good,” Madara said. One corner of his mouth tilted up. “No Uchiha travels by himself, especially not for a whole week on perilous paths. No Uchiha should face danger entirely on his own, either. No matter how powerful he might be.”

The only exceptions, Izuna added mentally, were missions too sensitive to be carried out by anyone except for specific, highly-skilled shinobi, or illegal missions like the one that Izuna had gone for. Even then, those were mostly restricted to the main house.

Clearly, the Senju didn’t follow the same rules. That was obvious enough for even Madara to have picked up on it.

Oh, Hashirama’s eyes were welling with tears. This was going to be cringe-inducing. Izuna steeled himself.

“Madara—” Hashirama said, voice wobbling. Had he no _dignity_?

“In the event that we do agree to these terms,” Madara said, ignoring Hashirama entirely, “when will Uzushio be amenable to sending a shipment?”

Looking entirely unsurprised, the Uzumaki folded his hands into his sleeves. “It is newly winter,” he said. “If the peace agreement is signed and arashi no shihaisha-sama officially belongs to the Uchiha, Uzushio will deliver the first shipment to coincide with the day arashi no shihaishi-sama moves into your clan compound.” He dipped his head down. “As a token of goodwill.”

Which meant a week at most, given how eager Hashirama looked. Years upon years of financial problems, and they would vanish into the air in _seven days_. 

“I see,” Madara told the Uzumaki. “The Uchiha accept.” The red-haired man settled back into seiza, clearly satisfied.

Madara shifted his attention back to the Senju clan head. “Yes, Hashirama,” he said, and _there_ was that rare smile, the one Izuna had never before seen outside their clan compound. “You will have your peace.” He held out a hand, forestalling Hashirama’s lunge halfway across the room.

“The Uchiha are fair,” Madara continued. “We will not deprive the Senju of a beloved brother. Neither will we rob them of their alliance with Uzushio, nor the resources Uzushio offers them.” He moved the table in front of him to the side. “So, how about that village? Hashirama?”

With a cry, Hashirama leapt forward. Madara stood and, in the same motion, neatly side-stepped him, sending Hashirama crashing onto the ground. Oh, Madara moved the table so Hashirama wouldn’t brain himself on it. Surprisingly considerate of him, actually. 

Izuna watched as his older brother cross the room and stop in front of Tobirama.

Before he could speak, however, Hashirama called his name, “Madara.”

Madara tilted his head, but did not shift his gaze from Tobirama’s expressionless face.

“You are very dear to me, Madara,” Hashirama said. When Izuna looked at his face, all traces of tears and overwrought joy were gone, replaced with a steely gaze and half-curled hands. “You are my first friend; the boy who taught me what friendship meant. But,” he smiled, sharp at the edges, “Tobirama is my brother. If I entrust him into your hands, I will become the last son of the Senju main house. Do you understand?”

In reply, Madara took off his haori with an overdramatic flourish. “Hikaku,” he said, voice whip-sharp. “Have you been recording every moment?”

“Yes, Madara-sama,” Hikaku said. “Ever since Tobirama-sama came in.”

“Mark this, too,” Madara ordered, turning his head to meet Hikaku’s spinning Sharingan directly with his Mangekyou in full display. 

“Understood,” Hikaku said, lowering his head slightly.

Satisfied that Hikaku had witnessed his will, Madara turned back to Tobirama. “This is but rough wool,” he said, using his clarion-clear ‘clan head’ voice. “For though I cannot promise you silks and silver like that which you are now adorned with, Tobirama, I swear to you fairness, respect, protection, and freedom.”

Not fidelity, Izuna noted. Not that Madara could promise that anyway. Not to a concubine.

“You will be one of mine, an Uchiha in the eyes of both the clan and the world even if you don’t take our name,” Madara said.

Hah; _that_ was unexpected. Concubines usually had no surnames; Madara’s offer to let Tobirama take _Uchiha_, while giving him the option to _refuse _the privilege was… Well, suffice to say that Tobirama’s standing within the clan had risen quite a great deal even before he had stepped into the compound.

“And I _swear_,” Madara’s voice grew vicious, “you will be cared for until the end of your days.” 

_Your _days, not _mine_; even if Madara died – Izuna shuddered just imagining it – Tobirama’s place in the clan was assured. Madara might have spoken the oath, but the Uchiha would carry it out in full.

Tilting his head up, Tobirama picked up the table in front of him and put it out of the way. Then he rocked back to his heels to stand. He was shorter than Madara by an inch, Izuna noted.

“Uchiha Tobirama,” Tobirama said, voice very, very soft, “swears respect, fidelity, and obedience to Madara-sama.” Fingertips peeked beneath his sleeves as he laid his hands above his hips. His knees bent until the top of his head was level with Madara’s collarbone.

“Husband, I greet you.” He had changed his pronoun, Izuna noted. No longer did he use the _ore_ he usually did, but the more polite _watashi_.

Flaring out the haori, Madara draped it around Tobirama’s shoulders. The dark blue fabric stood out starkly against the brilliant white of Tobirama’s clothes. 

“You honour us by taking our name,” Madara said. “Straighten, Uchiha Tobirama; no concubine of mine has to degrade himself like this. Neither will you have to address me by any honorific.”

Tobirama’s eyes slid shut. “Madara,” he murmured.

Taking a step back, Madara held out a hand. At that cue, Tsurugi stood, picking up his own table and Hikaku’s and moving them away. As Madara led Tobirama over to the Uchiha’s side of the room, Tsurugi took Tobirama’s table and settled it beside Izuna. Hikaku’s head turned, following Madara and Tobirama, and Izuna could see the very moment when Hikaku’s Sharingan recorded the uchiwa fan in between Tobirama’s shoulderblades.

Izuna’s brow twitched very slightly upwards when he noticed that Madara’s hand lingered on Tobirama’s for the briefest moment before he withdrew and returned to his own seat.

“Brother,” Hashirama greeted, inclining his head.

“Hashirama,” Madara returned. Then, with another slight smile, he brushed his hand over Hashirama’s elbow, urging him to return to his own seat. “Brother. In arms, if not in law.”

“I thank you for the honour,” Hashirama murmured, grinning from beneath his hair as he ostentatiously moved Madara’s table back in place. “The Senju thanks you.”

Madara rolled his eyes, folding back into seiza.

Akimichi Chouta cleared his throat. He smiled when his guests’ attention snapped towards him. “A village, you say?” he tilted his head. “An interesting idea, Madara-sama, Hashirama-sama. Will you tell me more about it?” 

As Hashirama flapped his hands in excitement, rising from his seat again, Izuna scanned the room. Hikaku was very still, focused on recording the event so he could show the rest of the clan when they return; Tsurugi was obviously making calculations about what he could do with all of the new resources that Uzushio would be giving them. On the opposite side of the room, the Uzumaki had clearly tuned out, scribbling on a scroll he had made appear from somewhere. Mito had her fan out, covering the bottom half of her face, while Touka’s hands were on her lap, but even her lowered head couldn’t hide the sharp smile on her lips. 

Odd. Izuna made a note to watch her a little more.

Beside him, Tobirama was quiet in a way that was somewhat familiar. Izuna leaned towards him and whispered, “Nii-san is _really_ dramatic, isn’t he?”

Tobirama’s brows furrowed. Was he worried about his life in the Uchiha compound before the village was built? Was he not expecting the village? What was he—

“Please,” Tobirama said, an urgent note Izuna had never heard in his voice before, “tell me that you’re not _all_ like that.” 

Izuna blinked. “Like what?”

“Dramatic, like you said,” Tobirama hissed. “_Loud_.”

It was really difficult to fight down the laugh, but Izuna somehow managed it. “Don’t worry,” he said, lips twitching. “Nii-san is the worst of the clan; the rest of us don’t have quite the flair that he does.”

Tobirama considered that for a moment. “Good,” he said. “That raises my survival rate among all of you quite significantly.” Then he seemed to realise that he would be living not just in the Uchiha compound, but _Madara’s_ _house_. “Is he dramatic _all_ the time?”

“This is him being restrained,” Izuna told him honestly, voice shaking.

Tobirama’s face scrunched up in a way that reminded Izuna of a mother cat being harassed into annoyance by her kittens. 

Nope, he couldn’t take it anymore: he threw his head back and _cackled_.

Yes, Izuna thought. Yes, he could accept the idea of building a village on the Senju. He could even live with Tobirama in his compound; in the same house. 

In fact, he couldn’t _wait_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tobirama hasn’t grown to his full height yet, which is why he’s shorter than Madara right now. Also, Madara is Tobirama’s husband, but Madara _isn’t_ married to Tobirama. Concubinage can be summed up as a one-way marriage, and thus doesn’t create an alliance between two families; instead, the family of the concubine rise to slightly higher esteem in the eyes of the (usually much higher-ranking) family of the husband. (More often, a concubine has no legal family at all, and they take on the position in exchange for financial security.) 
> 
> Tsurugi’s name comes from _Kusanagi-no-Tsurugi_, one of the three imperial regalia of Japanese royalty that legend states to come from Amaterasu. It means ‘sword.’ The name is inspired by Kagami being named after the _Yata-no-Kagami_, and Mikoto being named after the _no-mikoto_ attached to Amaterasu and Susano’o when it is the gods themselves being referred to. Taji’s name means ‘other people’s business.’ I stole the name from canon.
> 
> The Senju’s trade being sericulture and clothes-making has absolutely no basis in canon. It’s just the only traditional industry I can find that has a connection to plants _and _requires a thousand skills. 
> 
> Also, I know that a few of you guys had questions about just why the Senju would offer up Tobirama when it seems like they’re winning. I hope I answered your questions satisfactorily. :3 Thing is, I write third-person limited POV with the focus on _limited_: everyone has their own priorities and blind spots, and though there aren’t outright lies being told, there are certainly layers of truth. Furthermore, I really dislike doing exposition, which means that you might have to wait before your questions are answered. Feel free to ask and speculate, though, because it brings me so much joy when you do.


	4. the necessity of water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings: ** The start of the tide of OCs washing in. Tobirama has _finally _arrived at the Uchiha compound. Also, this chapter is _half_ of a very long scene; I cut it for pacing and thematic reasons.

Unlike his old bedroom in the Senju compound, the one Madara had given Tobirama among the Uchiha didn’t face the rising sun. Still, Tobirama’s body was so used to waking at dawn no matter what time he slept that he found himself blinking awake in the dark. He kicked off the blankets and rose from the bedroll – the store-master Tsurugi had apologised to him last evening, saying that the Uchiha didn’t own raised beds, and Tobirama had blinked at him because he was used to sleeping on hard floors with no bedding at all – and went through his usual stretches.

The house was dark and quiet; Madara and Izuna were clearly still asleep. Tobirama wasn’t surprised – the two of them had brought him back from the Akimichi lands after sunset, and had spent hours introducing him to the clan. A process, Tobirama was told by Izuna, that had already been expedited by Hikaku and Tsurugi arriving the day before to inform the clan about what had happened during the peace talks.

In any case, Hashirama slept until noon if his schedule allowed for it, and Mito did the same. Why should other clan heads be any different?

Walking across the tatami-covered floor, Tobirama made a brief hand sign to fill the ceramic basin in the corner with water. The dead stone the house was made of numbed his sensory abilities – which could explain how he fell asleep so quickly last night despite being in a strange place – but the doors and sliding panels were still made of wood and paper, and they carried chakra well enough for him to navigate in the darkness. The strange thing, though, was just how little _metal _he could feel in the house: there was no heating system, and no underground pipes.

Which was strange, because the Uchiha lands encompassed several of the Naka’s tributaries; the closest one ran parallel to the compound’s east gate. So, where was the irrigation system that transported water from the river into the heart of the compound?

In fact, there was so little _water_ here: just bright sparks dotted around the compound, marking the front of houses where the Uchiha kept huge buckets placed underneath the ducts that collected rain that fell upon their rooftops. It didn’t seem to be a particularly efficient system; what would they do for water during the dry seasons? Walk to the river?

After slathering on the thick ointment that would keep his skin from peeling in the sun, Tobirama decided that he would ask Madara once the older man had woken up. He had been promised freedom, and that should include questions—

Hand freezing in the middle of putting the jar down, Tobirama blinked. There were five chakra signatures approaching the main house; two children, and three others with chakra faint enough to be civilian members of the clan. Most of the compound were asleep – a few here and there burned brighter as they shifted into waking – so it didn’t make any sense.

Why were the civilians awake before the shinobi? Why were the _children_?

They were heading east, Tobirama noted, tugging on one of the plain, linen tsumugis he had brought from home – one of the few he owned without the crest – before draping the woollen haori Madara had given him over his shoulders. It didn’t warm him as much as the fur collar used to, but he had left that behind along with his armour.

Dipping his fingers into the basin of water, he dragged them over his hair. The happuri wasn’t with him either, because any hints of his usual battle-wear would remind the Uchiha that he was a Senju, and one who had fought against their clan countless times. But not having it meant that his hair fell into his eyes, so the water would do as a stopgap measure until he could find something more suitable.

(He wasn’t going to mention this to the Uchiha. The last time he had complained about his hair to someone outside his immediate family, the Uzumaki had made him a crown. And he couldn’t even sell it or melt it down for something more useful because it would be gravely insulting them.

Never again. Especially not among people who might think that they owed him something when they didn’t.)

Tobirama paused at the door to wait until the party of five was some distance away. He checked one more time that Madara and Izuna were still asleep before he opened the door – like Hashirama, Madara didn’t have locks on his front door, which was a relief – and stepped out. 

And stopped. He couldn’t feel it through his chakra sense inside the stone house, but with the rising sun casting red-gold light upon the compound, he could _see_ the twine-tied bundles the civilian women were carrying on their backs, massive and heavy enough to hunch them. And the two children couldn’t be more than five or six, and they were carrying wooden tubs that nearly dwarfed them.

He knew what they were going to do.

Making sure that his straw sandals made sound on the dirt, Tobirama strode forward. “Where are you going?” he asked.

All five of them stopped. The three women turned, and shock shuddered through their chakra systems when they saw him. “Besshitsu-san!” one of them yelped. All five tried to bow, and Tobirama could see the moment when they lost their balance.

He rushed forward. The one who spoke he steadied with a hand on her shoulder, the one beside her with an elbow, and the third woman with his other hand. He nudged the child closest to him in place with a knee, and shot out a foot to _gently _kick the tub out of the other child’s hand before he shifted one hand to straighten him.

“Please don’t do that again,” he said. He wanted to ask them to call him by his name, but that wouldn’t be fair: he didn’t know theirs. Besides, it _did_ fit: _besshitsu_ meant _concubine_, which was appropriate. Though he had never heard it used as a title before, it was fitting for them to address him as such.

In any case— 

“You’re bringing the clothes to be washed, yes?” Tobirama didn’t wait for them to nod. “Where are you—” A horrifying thought struck him. “Are you going to the _river_?”

They were all staring at him, mouth open. The one who had first spoken regained her faculties quickest, and seemed to want to bow before she remembered his instruction. She lowered her head instead, hoisting her burdens further up her shoulders.

“We’re the clan’s washerwomen, besshitsu-san,” she said.

Tobirama looked at them. Enormous though their burdens might look, the bundles couldn’t account for even half of what a clan needed washing every day, even if they changed tsumugi once a week, nagajuban every three days, and futon covers monthly. He resisted the urge to dig his knuckles into the corners of his eyes.

“Just three of you?” That was obvious. “How long does that take you?”

The three women exchanged a glance. Then the second one, her chakra weaker than the first who spoke, said, “It is our duty, besshitsu-san.”

Every hour of daylight, then. And likely every single day. Because they had to walk to the river to wash the clothes, bring them back sodden to hang, and return with another load… It was enough to make Tobirama feel tired just _thinking_ about it.

The Uchiha had no irrigation system. _Why_ didn’t they have an irrigation system?!

He couldn’t figure out an answer to that; Madara was still asleep. Tobirama needed to focus on resolving this ridiculous inefficiency _now_.

“Do any of you,” he said, looking at the women, “live in a place that has some space in your backyard? Perhaps a square of hundred metres in height and length?” 

The women looked at each other again. One of them reached out and brought the child whose tub Tobirama had kicked away closer to her. “Why do you ask, besshitsu-san?”

“If you have the space, I can make a lake for you to wash the clothes in,” Tobirama explained. “Then you don’t have to go to the river anymore.”

“You can _do_ that?”

It was a child who spoke this time, a tiny boy with curly hair and huge black eyes. He was clutching the washing tub with both small hands, head tilted up and lips parted.

Tobirama looked at him for a moment before he folded down to one knee so the child wouldn’t get a crick in his neck. One of the women made a strangled noise.

“Yes,” Tobirama said. “Would you like me to do that?”

“Mama, mama,” the boy turned to his mother, the first woman who spoke, and tugged on her sleeve. “Mama, if you don’t have to carry clothes to the river, your shoulders won’t get so tired that you can’t sleep well!”

“But why would you—” one of the women choked out. 

Carefully not looking at her, Tobirama placed a hand gently on the head of the boy in front of him. “I used to do the laundry for the whole of my clan,” he said, voice quiet. “I know how much work it takes, and I was doing it with the help of chakra and jutsu in the backyard of my own home.”

“Weren’t you the Senju’s clan heir?” the first woman who spoke blurted out.

“I am a suiton user,” Tobirama reminded. “Besides, it was good training.” He practiced his chakra control and multi-tasking skills most by trying to figure out how to spin twenty tubs at the same rate and speed simultaneously.

He broke a _lot_ of tubs. Luckily, Hashirama could always make more.

“Shinobi-sama don’t do common chores,” the other child piped up. Unlike the other boy, his hair was spiky like many of the Uchihas’, and he had a stalk sticking straight up and tied with twine; clearly his mother’s vain attempt to impose some sort of order to the mess. “That’s for the rest of us to do.”

Tobirama resisted rolling his eyes; he shouldn’t insult his new clan. “The clan of my birth,” he said carefully, “believes that a skill has many purposes.” When the boy looked dubious, Tobirama elaborated, “Suiton can be used for laundry, doton to till the fields, fuuton to blow the silkworm casings from the trees so they could be easily picked up…” His lips twitched into a smile.

“My older brother has mokuton, meaning that he controls wood. He uses it most not in battle, but for making and repairing furniture, walls, and doors.”

The Senju was a clan famed for their mastery of a thousand skills, and each one of them picked one and became the best in it. How could they be the best if they didn’t practice it every single day and in every single way?

Besides, with the mundane chores done by shinobi the civilians could focus on the artistic aspects of the Senju’s sericulture trade. Senju silk wasn’t prized only for the quality of the silkworms alone, but for the workmanship involved in the weaving, dyeing, painting, and embroidery. 

“Oh,” the boy said.

There was a tug on his sleeve. Tobirama turned to the curly-haired boy. “What can katon be used for then?”

“Keeping the blacksmiths’ forges running on chakra so you don’t have waste wood,” Tobirama answered. “Keeping the cook-fires going, and a house warm in winter.”

“They do that!” the boy said excitedly. “Shinobi-sama always help the blacksmiths with their fires, and Madara-sama and Izuna-sama would come to our houses after sunset to make sure that our fires are going!” 

Why would the clan head and heir do that? Every Uchiha shinobi could use katon, couldn’t they? And the Uchihas were famed for the depth of their chakra reserves, so even the least powerful of them should be able to do so, and be more efficient than two men covering an entire clan.

It _did_ speak well of Tobirama’s new— _lord_ and his younger brother that they bothered, though.

(He might have named Madara ‘husband,’ but that was a formality for public use, so Tobirama didn’t need to use the term in his own mind. 

It was accurate anyway; Madara _was_ the head of a noble clan, after all, and Tobirama was his subject.)__  
  
“That’s exactly the same thing, right?” the child asked. 

“Exactly,” Tobirama said. “That’s a clever deduction.” He ruffled his hair lightly. The boy ‘eeped’ and ducked his head, smiling shyly at him.

“I have space in my backyard,” the first woman who spoke said, drawing his attention back to her. “We usually use it to hang the clothes, but if you only need the ground for a lake…”

“It’ll do just fine,” Tobirama nodded, rocking back on his heels to stand. Then he looked at them for a moment. “Will you find it offensive if I offer to carry your burdens back for you?”

The woman opened her mouth. Before she could speak, however, her son pulled at the knees of her rough woollen komon. “Mama,” he said quietly. “Your shoulders hurt.”

She sighed, sliding the bundle off her back. Tobirama took it before it could hit the ground, and swung it immediately on one shoulder. He held out both hands for the other two; one went on the other shoulder, and the third he left hanging on his elbow. Then he kicked up the wooden tub still on the ground and caught it with his free hand. 

“You’ll have to carry that,” he told the curly-haired boy, motioning to the other washing tub with his chin. “For it seems that I’m out of hands.”

For some reason, the boy’s mother laughed. “My house is this way,” she said, waving a hand to the north. “I’m Mikami, besshitsu-san.”

“Kagami!” the curly-haired boy chirped. “And my friend is Maru, and Maru’s mother is Komaki-oba-san,” he flapped in that woman’s direction, “and that’s Suriko-oba-san!” 

“Well met,” Tobirama inclined his head. As they started walking, he tried, “I suppose you will not call me by my name?”

“That will be going a little too far,” Mikami said, and there was a bit of a smile on her lips as she dipped her head into a small bow, “_besshitsu-san_.”

Tobirama could definitely see where Kagami got his irrepressible personality from. He let his lips quirk up into a smile.

Mikami’s home wasn’t that far, but it was enough for Tobirama to start feeling the ropes of the bundles cut into his shoulders. She didn’t lock her door either, Tobirama noted as she led them inside, which spoke well of the Uchiha as a whole. He subtly rolled his shoulders and stretched out his arms as they reached the backyard.

It wasn’t particularly large, with the edges planted with thick-trunked oak trees with thin wires running between the branches. Practical, he thought approvingly. And there was big patch of clear ground in the middle – no other plants, he thought, because they might attract birds that would ruin clean laundry with their droppings. The oaks were already risking it.

“Can I watch?” Kagami asked, carefully placing the tub he was carrying next to the one Tobirama had dropped.

“Of course,” Tobirama nodded. “You can all watch, if you like.”

With that, he dropped to his knees, rolled up his sleeves, and placed both hands on the ground. He threw his senses downwards, searched for water; just as he thought, with the number of tributaries and the great Naka River nearby, there were plenty of groundwater channels underground. He sifted through all of them, picking one that led deep enough to filter out the soap before returning clean water back into the Naka.

He closed his eyes. Sight was useless for this.

A few hand seals— “Doton!” The ground curved downwards, creating a crater that was exactly a hundred meters in diameter. Almost the same seals, “Doton!” A single tunnel opened from the side of the crater, and he _focused_, forcing it down towards to meet the tunnel he had chosen.

Then, he grabbed a handful of soil from the side. A twitch of his index finger gathered water in the air into small stream, turning the soil into thick clay he could shape. He rolled it into a long stake the exact size of the tunnel he had made, and placed it to the side. Then, with one hand on the crater, he pulled out the water from the topmost inches, turning it dry and sandy. He bid the water to stay around him instead of escaping up to the sky. 

“Step back,” he warned. When he felt their chakra signatures retreat towards the house, Tobirama stood. He pulled off his sandals and walked into the middle of the crater. This… would require a great deal of control.

He breathed in deep, sinking into himself. He pushed away the water calling to his blood and went further within. Lightning sparked within his bones and nerves, and he drew it out carefully, nudging it towards his palms, fingertips, and the soles of his feet. At the edge of his hearing, he heard a gasp and ignored it.

“_Raiton!_” He slammed his hands onto the ground.

Lightning chakra spilled out of his body, roaring as it ripped through the air. Tobirama gritted his teeth and compelled it to _spread _around the crater instead of sinking downwards like lightning was wont to do. The dry topsoil burned, filling his nose with sharp smoke. He loosened his control a little, letting the lightning sink down before shoving it sideways again.

Once he was sure that the soil had been burnt into black glass three inches deep, Tobirama pulled it all back, gathering it into one hand. Then he stood, striding quickly to the edge where he kept the plug. He held it first with the hand not covered in lightning, pulling the water out of it. Then, without giving it time to crumble, he tossed it to the other hand and thrust lightning through the whole thing. 

It turned into glass into his hands. Tobirama experimentally dropped it. Glass met glass with a loud, ringing _clack_, but neither broke. Then, gathering some chakra into his knuckles, he punched the crater.

Nothing broke. Good; it would hold weight, then.

Placing the plug in its place, Tobirama went through hand seals that he no longer needed to think about. “Suiton: Water Dragon Bullet,” he called.

Water in the air shuddered and coalesced. Tobirama sent the dragon down to coil around the lake like it was settling down to sleep. Then he took back the chakra keeping the water in its shape, and it spilled outwards, filling out the crater entirely.

Another exhale, and Tobirama opened his eyes. He stared at the lake before sending chakra down from his bare soles.

No cracks. No leaks. Good enough for now. 

“I’ll have to come back to fill the lake again once you have finished the first wash and need to rinse the soap away,” he said. “Will three hours be enough time, or should I return later?” He turned around.

And immediately regretted it, because they were staring at him with an expression Tobirama recognised and _hated_. He had seen this face on the citizens of Uzushio when he had forced the first storm to turn away from their shores.

“I didn’t do very much,” Tobirama tried to explain. “Anija would’ve been able to make a lake like this too, except he would’ve used wood instead of glass.” Wait, they wouldn’t understand that. “Madara’s katon could’ve burnt the soil into glass, too.” Which made Tobirama think: why _hadn’t_ Madara? He couldn’t have thought that helping civilian members in his clan to be beneath him if he kept their hearth fires going…

He would think about that later, because those stares had _worsened _and Tobirama needed them to stop. They were making shivers creep down his spine and he hated it because he hadn’t done anything particularly spectacular. They needed to stop looking at him like that when he was only finding the most efficient way to resolve an issue. He was just being _useful_—

Wait, he could do something that he couldn’t in Uzushio.

“If there is anything else you need, or if this is inadequate, please find me again,” he said. “I’ll come back in three hours to refill the lake.” Then, picking up his shoes, he strode out of Mikami’s house as quickly as he could without seeming like he was running away.

Hopefully those hours away from him would be enough for them to see sense. Tobirama resisted the urge to rub his hands over his face, instead focusing on ducking into an alley where he could wash and dry his feet and put his sandals back on.

He was making his way back to Madara’s house – the sun had fully risen by now, which meant that he might be awake and Tobirama could shake him about the inefficiencies of his clan’s workings – when he came across a group of ten young men. Given the thickness of their arms and shoulders, they were clearly blacksmiths, and they were carrying buckets.

Water, Tobirama thought grimly. The Uchiha had _such _issues with water. Which didn’t make sense, because they might be a katon-based clan but irrigation systems existed for good reasons! Even if they didn’t have the series of pipes leading to every house like those Tobirama had designed and laid for the Senju compound, they should have at least one central pump!

“Stop,” Tobirama said. “You don’t have to go to the river for water anymore.” Then, before they could ask and because he was _tired_ of explaining and he did not need them to look at them like Mikami and the other did, he tilted up his index finger. A wave of water curled around him before dissipating. “I can give it to you right here. Just tell me where to put it.”

They blinked at him. At least they hadn’t started staring.

“Uh, besshitsu-san,” one of them started; he looked like the oldest and most senior of them all, which meant he had only a few years on Tobirama himself. “We need a _lot _of water.”

“Our duty is to refill the water buckets of every shinobi house, and then to carry the water back for the forges,” the one next to him said. “Besshitsu-san.”

“What do the civilian houses do, then?” Tobirama demanded.

“Families without shinobi members get our own water,” the first one answered. 

“_Where_?”

“The north river, besshitsu-san.”

“What of the east? It is closer.” 

“The washerwomen use it,” the same man told him.

“Where are your forges?”

“South of the compound,” a third man answered. The other two who had spoken before pointed.

Tobirama closed his eyes. He could see the rationale: soap-laden water couldn’t be used for a household, because they would use it to cook; and it couldn’t be used for the forge either, because the bubbles might harm the steel. 

But the tributary by the north gate was ten minutes away by a civilian’s pace, and that was the speed of an empty-handed man. The compound itself was large enough that it would take an hour’s walking from the south end to the north. These men would spend their _entire morning_ just _getting water_.

That was so much wasted time. That was so much wasted _work. _

He was going to _shout_ at Madara. And Izuna, too. And the gods could try to save any shinobi member of the Uchiha clan from his wrath, because nothing else would.

“Bring me to the forges,” Tobirama said. “All of you. Don’t bother getting water from the north river anymore.”

“But, besshitsu-san, the shinobi houses,” one of them, Tobirama was too irate to figure out anymore, protested. 

“_I _will fill their buckets, and the bucket of every civilian house,” Tobirama bit out. “And I can do that _while_ you bring me to your forges, because we have to _pass by almost every house_ to do so.” His hands were clenched, and he tried to relax them as he thrust a hand out. “Please. Lead me. Now.”

The group of them stared at each other. Tobirama crossed his arms. For some reason, all of them jerked to attention at that. Tobirama would ask why, but they were finally moving, and he didn’t want them to stop just to answer him. He was angry enough that he might just snap at them, and they didn’t deserve that. He had lashed out too much already.

No, the shouting would be reserved for Madara. Lord or not, concubine or not, Tobirama was going to verbally _castrate_ him for this.

A breath out. Walking took no effort, especially with so many chakra signatures serving as guide, so Tobirama threw his senses upwards. A winter storm was coming; the clouds carrying the heavy rains were nearly overhead. If Tobirama left them alone, they would reach near noon and ruin Mikami and the other women’s laundry. 

Sending his chakra out, Tobirama urged the clouds to gather above the compound by tugging on them.

They were closing into the centre of the compound now, barely steps away from Madara’s house. _Not yet_, Tobirama thought to himself. There were too many chakra signatures leaving their houses right now. A few hundred metres more… 

Right as they had reached a spot where the area around him was mostly empty but for the men ahead, the droplets of ran overhead were started to rub at each other with enough intensity to create lightning. 

_Here_.

Tobirama threw his senses out in a two hundred metres in radius all around him, marking the spots where he could feel the wooden buckets.

Then, he reached up and _pulled_.

Water dragons rushed down from the clouds, weaving around buildings and bodies. Some rushed past him, sending chilled wind to bite at Tobirama’s skin through the haori and tsumugi. Tobirama ignored the discomfort and threw his senses backwards. North. Then east. West. 

He opened his eyes. They were staring at him. Again.

“The forges,” Tobirama reminded. “Please.”

None of them moved. And their chakra was a little odd. Tobirama squinted, trying to look at their faces. Overhead, lightning crackled. He nudged the droplets apart a little more.

Some of the men were staring _behind_ him. Why—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Besshitsu_ is written in kanji as “別室,” which literally translates to “other room.” It’s an archaic term used mostly during Sengoku Jidai to both talk about someone else’s concubine and to address that person to their face. Credit goes to my RL friend Z who gave me _four_ Japanese terms for “concubine” and explained to me the histories and connotations behind them. (If you’re interested, the other terms are: _mekake_, _sokushitsu_, and _aishou_.)
> 
> All Uchiha OC names are taken from [this list of mountains and hills in Japan](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_mountains_and_hills_of_Japan_by_height), based on the fact that Madara, Izuna, Fugaku and Izumi are all named after mountains (Madara-o Kogen, Iizuna, Mount Fuji, and Mount Izumi in Osaka respectively). The height of the mountain that the OC is named after reflects their general rank within the clan (i.e. Suriko from Mount Suribachi is higher than Komaki, etc. Kagami is an exception.)
> 
> I… did warn from the start that this chapter is only half of a scene, right? /hides. But uh, I’m posting Chapter 5 one day earlier than usual, on Friday night EST/Saturday morning JST? (Because I’ll be on a plane on my usual posting day, aha. And yes, I will keep posting even while overseas. :>)


	5. wildfire, hearth fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** This chapter is the second half of one scene; it continues directly from the previous chapter. Please reread Chapter 4 if you’ve forgotten bits of it!

“I woke up,” a familiar voice drawled, “because I felt doton and raiton being used in my compound, and I know that no one would be using jutsu at this early hour because the sensors in the clan like to actually sleep.” Slow, deliberate footsteps came towards Tobirama. “Then I had barely taken a few steps out of my house before I ran into Mikami and Suriko and Komaki, who were all babbling something about you and how I have to keep you here forever.” The footsteps stopped.

“So, I came to find you, and I barely took a step before I had to dodge a whole bunch of very familiar water dragons. But they weren’t trying to drown me or my clan, which is a pity, because that’d made sense. Instead, they were filling our water buckets.”

A sigh, heavy and deep.

“Tobirama, I left you alone for _one morning_. Because I was _sleeping_.”

Turning, Tobirama faced his new lord.

Madara looked… frazzled. His hair was mussed and spilling from its sleeping braid, his tsumugi was folded the wrong way and the haori was clearly thrown on in a hurry because it was inside-out. He had no shoes on. Tobirama opened his mouth, fully intending to offer a half-hearted apology for waking him.

What came out was instead: “How do you wash yourselves?” 

“Hn?” Madara said intelligently.

“The washerwomen have to bring all of their laundry to the river to the east, carrying all, what, fifty kilograms of them back and forth, every day, until their shoulders are surely bleeding from the strain,” Tobirama said, taking a step forward. “Your blacksmiths—” 

“We’re apprentices, besshitsu-san,” one of them piped up. Tobirama made a note to learn his name.

“Your blacksmith apprentices,” he corrected, “have to spend the morning hours getting water.” 

“Yes.” Madara had the gall to look _confused_, of all things. “They do that. I don’t see what that has to do with—”

“If they have to do that, then how do _any_ of you bathe on a regular basis?” Tobirama interrupted, dangerously close to pulling his own hair out. “I don’t even see any bathhouses—” 

“We mostly go to the springs in the forests,” Madara said. 

“Even in _winter_?” Tobirama asked, incredulity seeping into his voice despite himself. 

“All of us have fire or lightning as our affinities,” Madara explained, “and circulating chakra to keep warm is one of the basic shinobi skills. Besides, the springs never freeze over, no matter how cold it gets.”

Carefully, Tobirama regulated his breathing. 

“What about the civilians? Do they go to the springs, too?”

“There’s plenty of rainfall and snow-melt in winter, besshitsu-san,” the interrupting apprentice spoke up again. “That’s what we use.”

Did they not bathe on days when it didn’t rain? Not to mention— the Uchiha had been at war, and they had been so for _centuries._ During those centuries, they would literally leave the safety of their gated compound just to clean themselves. They had to do so to make sure that their forges worked and their clothes were washed. Even the civilians. Even the _children_.

What was the compound even _for_, then? Tobirama resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“You need an irrigation system,” he stated flatly.

“Hn?” Madara made that sound again.

“Three pipes,” Tobirama snarled, eyes snapping open to stare straight into Madara’s still-black ones. “One for each river near the compound, leading to one in the centre. No one will have to go out for water then.” He took a breath. “Four more pipes, one for each direction, and no one has to walk for more than fifteen minutes. A few more, and every house can have water by their _door_.”

He jabbed a finger in Madara’s face, right in between his black eyes.

“Copper is cheap, and you have forges,” Tobirama continued, biting off the end of every word to keep control of his temper. “A day or two for the pipes to be made. A week to lay them. Less, if the _shinobi-sama_,” the term came out as a growl despite his best effort, “use doton to help dig the tunnels.”

Madara stared at him. He opened his mouth. Closed it. “_Why_ do you know so much of infrastructure?” he demanded eventually.

Instead of actually addressing anything Tobirama said, he was going to— that was _it_.

“You’ve wanted a village since you were a child!” Tobirama yelled. “Have you never read a single scroll on town planning in your _life_? Were you imagining that you can blow a katon at a forest and a village will pop up with houses that people will actually _want_ to live in?”

“The village was _Hashirama’s_ idea,” Madara spluttered, “and he said that he’d build—”

“Anija thinks that six-storey houses built in _trees_ are a grand idea!” Tobirama was _this_ close to shaking his lord. “And what are _you_ going to do while he builds those? Sit around and watch as everything come crashing down? Carry the furnaces from here to your new compound on your own back?”

Wait, no, they were going off-topic. Tobirama squeezed his eyes shut. Father had always told him that he had a terrible temper and it needed to be controlled. _Use it, don’t let it use you_, Father had said. 

“The rivers,” Tobirama said, the sparking pain of his nails digging into his palms forcing evenness back into his voice, “are right there. You own the ground that separates it from your compound. So why—” 

“We’ve never thought of it,” Madara said.

“What.”

“When the compound was built,” Madara sighed, dragging a hand through his braid and loosening it even further, “our ancestors made sure that it was close to as many rivers, and on top of as many groundwater channels, as they could make it. We used to have wells, and we would sometimes use that for cooking and bathing, but they dried up last summer, so…”

Alright; the situation was slightly less dire than Tobirama had thought. He let out a long breath.

“The laundry? The forges?” he demanded.

“They have always headed straight for the rivers for their water,” Madara said. “Because the wells didn’t have enough.”

He didn’t sound angry, just tired and a little perplexed. Which was strange, because Tobirama had practically been screaming in his face for the past ten minutes. 

Still, Tobirama would take that calm at face value, because— “So,” he said, steadying his voice as much as he could, “you haven’t tried to change anything… because you have done the same thing for decades? Centuries?”

“Y…es? What’s wrong with that?”

“It’s _inefficient_,” Tobirama told him. “Look, I know that you’ve never had fields, but you’ve seen irrigation channels, right?”

“But those for the fields are always built lower than rivers, and the compound is level with—”

“The capital!” Tobirama threw up his hands. “You’ve been to the capital! And I _know_ they have a piping system!”

“I,” Madara said, blinking at him with black eyes, “have absolutely no clue what you’re talking about. In fact, I don’t even know what you mean by pipes. Farmland irrigation doesn’t have any of those, as far as I can tell.”

Resisting the urge to gape, Tobirama dug his knuckles in between his eyes. “Madara. The metal stand that’s outside every noble house that has a lever that you push and water comes out. That thing.”

“Oh,” Madara said, comprehension _finally _dawning on his face. “_That_. I’ve always wanted to know how they works, because it’ll be useful, but no one I’ve ever asked knew or was willing to tell me—”

“Why,” Tobirama said, patience fraying now by anger _and _frustration, “would you need to ask?”

“I don’t know how it works.” Ah, _now_ he could hear his own frustration mirrored in Madara’s tone. “I didn’t even know its name.”

“You’re a sensor,” Tobirama said, still speaking with his knuckles over his eyes. “Water feels different from metal, which feels different from earth. You could have just felt it.” That was how he had figured out the capital’s underground piping system the _one_ time he had been there, after all. “Failing that, use the Sharingan.”

“Using chakra in _any_ way is illegal in the capital,” Madara sputtered, eyes going wide now. “Tobirama—”

“Civilians think of chakra use as jutsu, especially the big, flashy ones,” Tobirama swept an impatient arm out. “If you infuse chakra for sensing, they won’t be able to tell. If you make sure no one is around when you use the Sharingan, they can’t tell either.” He squinted at Madara, trying to read the emotions flickering across his face. “Why didn’t you?”

“It’s _illegal_,” Madara insisted.

“Why does that _matter_?” Tobirama asked, now genuinely confused. 

“There are,” Madara said slowly, “so many things wrong with what you just said I don’t know where to _begin_.”

_Ah_, so that was the matter. “Anija tends to go with order of importance,” Tobirama supplied helpfully. 

Hashirama had spent _years _trying to figure out a system to talk to Tobirama about things like laws and ethics and things that, in Tobirama’s point-of-view, were entirely illogical because they forced everything into a state of horrible inefficiency. 

Besides, shinobi were _supposed_ to break laws, weren’t they? That was what daimyos generally hired them _for_.

“More importantly,” Tobirama said, because if they derailed into a discussion of that, the main issue here would never get resolved, “your compound needs an irrigation system. Build one.”

Madara tilted his head up to stare at the sky. “You have been here,” he said, “for less than twelve hours.”

“I don’t see your point.”

“Fine,” Madara sighed, fingers digging into his hair. “Tell me how to build this irrigation system that, I presume, you have the Senju build for their own compound.” Tobirama nodded. “And which I’m pretty sure you copied from the capital’s through illegal means.” He nodded again. 

“I’m going to kill Hashirama,” Madara sighed.

“Your latter two sentences have absolutely no connection to each other,” Tobirama pointed out. 

“He missed out everything important when he was telling me about you,” Madara muttered from behind his hands. “I’d really, really would like to have had a warning that _this_ is what I’m dealing with.”

Oh. 

Tobirama had hoped that he could prove himself useful enough to Madara and the Uchiha as a whole before he had to be ‘dealt with,’ as Madara had put it, but it seemed that he had failed. 

Which he shouldn’t be surprised by, but he was still… disappointed, nonetheless. He had really just meant to _help_, and Madara had seemed so _reasonable_ during the past week they had spent at the Akimichi’s.

Then again, that was Madara in a foreign place. This was Madara at home, in his clan compound where he was beholden to no one else, and where Hashirama wasn’t here and thus Madara had full authority over him.

He was to be, Tobirama reminded himself, a symbol of subjugation.

(Maybe they really should have chosen someone else. Mito surely would’ve figured something for Uzushio to give the Uchiha to sweeten the deal, and Madara wanted the village too, so it likely would still have been built. If they had chosen someone else, Madara wouldn’t have to promise to care for someone who was as difficult to handle as Tobirama.

But there had been no one else who could fit. But it had been _Tobirama’s _idea, and he couldn’t imagine offering up one of his clan members instead of himself.)

“I… apologise for the trouble,” he offered, stepping back and bowing low until his back was parallel to the ground. “If my suggestions will place too great a burden, I can simply handle the clan’s water supply by myself. It will not be an issue.”

Madara closed his eyes and didn’t say anything. Tobirama resisted poking him with his senses – it would be rude, and he had surely offended Madara enough for one morning – and instead stayed as still as he could.

“How long are you going to keep doing that?” Madara asked finally.

Tobirama blinked. “What?” When Madara waved a hand upwards, eyes still closed, Tobirama followed it.

The clouds. He had nearly forgotten about them. “They’re for the houses in the south and the forges,” he said. “I’ll hold them in place until I get there.”

“Isn’t it a strain?” Madara asked. 

“It’s water.” Madara _finally _opened his eyes, dark gaze levelling on him, so Tobirama tried to explain. “I’m good with suiton.”

Madara frowned. “I can _feel_ just how much chakra you’re using,” he said pointedly.

Why did that matter? Tobirama was confused enough to give into his instincts, nudging at Madara’s chakra to try to feel for his emotions—

It felt a little like Hashirama’s when Tobirama had spent too long awake trying to finish his duties to the clan and his research and his training. That was odd. Madara had no reason to worry about him. Tobirama wasn’t important to him, after all, and he had _just_ proven how difficult he was to handle, just how much trouble he could and did bring. So why—

“I can feel you sensing me, too,” Madara said, frown deepening. “Stop that and answer me!” 

“It’s not a strain,” Tobirama said, a little distracted. “Why are you worried? I’m nowhere near chakra exhaustion yet.”

“Why is that the only—?” Madara clicked his mouth shut. “Forget it. Let’s get to the forges. I’ll come with you.”

“Won’t you want to get dressed first?” Tobirama asked. Even Hashirama would try to look decent in front of the clan, and Madara looked like he had rolled from bed and hit the ground running. Which, he thought, was likely what had happened. Tobirama would have to apologise for that later.

“It’s fine, besshitsu-san,” the blacksmith apprentice who had interrupted Tobirama just now said, sounding like he was grinning. “This is not the worst we’ve seen Madara-sama.”

“Shut the fuck up, Kabato,” Madara groused, flinging a clenched fist in the direction of the watchers gathered around them. To Tobirama’s utter surprise, the other man laughed instead of apologising like a Senju reprimanded by his clan head would.

In fact, _all_ of the Uchiha were laughing. Not just Kabato and his fellow apprentices, because – now that Tobirama was paying attention to people aside from Madara – nearly the whole clan had either surrounded them or were watching from the doors and rooftops of the houses in the area.

“Apologies for our clan head, besshitsu-san,” a familiar voice came from behind him; Mikami. “He’s a bit of a messy embarrassment, I’m afraid.”

That set off another wave of laughter. Tobirama blinked. What kind of clan would allow a civilian washerwoman to _insult_ her _clan head_?

“Oy!” Madara drew himself up, chest puffing out like an offended bird. “Where’s my respect, you assholes?”

“You left it back with your shoes, Madara-sama!” a stranger called from the left. 

“Don’t you think it’s too late to run away to become a monk now, Madara-sama?” another voice shouted from the same direction. “Especially with besshitsu-san right in front of you?”

“I hate _all of you_,” Madara snarled, sounding like a hissing kettle. Even his hair strands looked like they were standing on their ends. Tobirama resisted the urge to check if they were electrified, because that would be dangerous.

Then Madara had a hand on his arm. Tobirama stared at it, nearly missing Madara’s grumbled, “Let’s go before they destroy my dignity further,” and then he was being dragged away.

The Uchiha in front of them parted for Madara to pass, and they lowered their heads. Both of which was normal. The fact that they were still laughing, and laughing at their clan head without making _any _attempts at hiding it, was nearly enough to make Tobirama’s head spin. 

Forget the lack of an irrigation system. Forget Madara’s worry. _This_ was the most inexplicable thing about the Uchiha. How could they act so casually towards their clan head, especially when he seemed angry at them? The Senju had never done that, not even with Hashirama and all of his silliness and overwrought emotions, and of course they wouldn’t: Hashirama had proven himself far too necessary to the clan that he should always be accorded the respect that he deserved.

And he knew that Madara was the same: he was a powerhouse on the battlefield like Hashirama, after all, and the brief glance Tobirama had taken of his office hinted that he worked hard at his role as clan head. 

It didn’t make sense that Madara seemed so content that his clan members were watching and laughing at him like he was a particularly entertaining roadside comedy. Didn’t the Uchiha’s refusal to call Tobirama by his name show that they were sticklers for hierarchy? Why didn’t that apply to Madara? 

“We’re here,” Madara announced, voice dragging Tobirama out of his thoughts. His hand was _still_ on his arm. 

Tobirama shoved the puzzle to be turned over in his mind later. He followed the long column of chakra he was using to hold the clouds in place, and he pulled the water down to fill the buckets in the houses around him, ignoring the gasps that resounded around him. Then he dragged down the rest, holding it a few meters above the rooftops.

“Where does it go in the forges?” Tobirama asked.

“Huge metal pots,” Madara answered. “Some distance from the furnaces. The main forge has seven,” he pointed and Tobirama threw his chakra inside, leading the dragons to round-shaped metal, “and the four other forges have three each.” He directed the last of the water there.

Then Tobirama threw his chakra overhead again. He had drained the storm, but if he stretched his senses out further to the rivers and made the water on the top levels dissipate into vapour and move upwards, he could reform it and send it east and south. Even if the Senju and Akimichi likely could miss a day of rain, they couldn’t do so for more than a few days, so Tobirama should get into the habit of doing this if he was going to be the Uchiha’s source of water for the near future.

There was a hand on his arm. Tobirama blinked. His eyes were worsening, he thought, because even Madara’s face, barely an inch from his, was blurred at the edges. There were slices of white in front of his eyes – his hair. He tried to sweep the strands out of the way, but couldn’t quite catch them. 

“Tobirama,” Madara’s voice called. “Are you okay? What are you doing?”

“Making sure the Senju and the Akimichi have rain,” Tobirama said. His own voice was _slurring_, which meant that it wasn’t his eyes, but his chakra expenditure. That was a relief; unlike his eyes, chakra exhaustion could be fixed. “I’m fine.”

“Uh huh,” Madara said, sounding like he didn’t believe him. “Come on, you’ve had a hell of a morning. Let’s get you home.”

_Don’t send me back_. He was trying to get his tongue to form the words when he realised that Madara was half-dragging him southwards, and oh, he meant his _house_, and that was—

(Home was efficient structures and necessary duties. Home was formalities and people who behaved in ways that Tobirama could understand. Home was Hashirama’s chakra like an untouched forest with shadows that threatened to drag Tobirama in if he lingered too long; it was Mito’s sea salt, rough on his nerves but beloved; it was Touka’s newly-unfurled mulberry leaves that lured him away from his work with sweet familiarity. 

Home was the Senju compound and his brother and sister-in-law and cousin who didn’t worry about him because they trusted him and knew better than to exhaust him with the need to explain. Home was—)

That was right. The Senju compound wasn’t Tobirama’s home anymore. He couldn’t go back, not if he wanted the peace to last and no one to feel their little brothers’ chakra fade as they took their last breath.

He needed to stop being childish.

“Shoes,” Madara said, and Tobirama mechanically kicked off his straw sandals. Madara was _still_ pulling him along, and Tobirama should protest that he could walk on his own, but he wasn’t quite sure he could.

Then there was a hand on his shoulder and another on his back. Tobirama’s knees buckled, sending him crashing down, but a cushion eased the impact. Tobirama tried to move into seiza, or even sit straight, but he found himself listing to the side instead.

He braced himself to land hard on the floor, but then Madara’s shoulder was right there, broad and strong, fingers spreading over Tobirama’s ribs to hold him steady. Tobirama’s head spun, and he told himself that it was only because of the need to sneeze from Madara’s hair falling across his face.

“I thought every Senju is a chakra monster,” Madara said, voice very soft. There was the soft rustle of cloth against tatami as he settled himself around Tobirama.

Given that Madara’s most frequent opponent was Hashirama, Tobirama supposed that he couldn’t be blamed for thinking that. And Tobirama should _let_ him keep thinking that, should come up with some kind of excuse for his current chakra depletion because the Senju’s low reserves and corresponding mastery at chakra control had been a secret kept from the Uchiha for _centuries_.

But Madara had brought him to the heart of his compound and allowed him freedom. But Madara was now holding him, and the worry spiking his chakra was so strong that it nudged at Tobirama even through his muted senses. But Tobirama had sworn to obey him—

No. He could find his way out of those promises if he had to, so they mattered little. If he was to reveal this, it would be because it was… fair.

“Anija is an anomaly,” Tobirama said finally. He cracked an eye open, but only blurriness met him, so he shut it again. “Bottomless chakra reserves are an Uzumaki specialty, not a Senju one.”

Madara hummed. Nothing about that noise should reveal anything, but Tobirama somehow had the sense that Madara _understood_ the weight of what he had just been given.

Still, his voice was casual, almost idle, as he said, “Izuna never mentioned anything about your reserves being _this_ low.”

Despite himself, Tobirama snorted. Only a ‘chakra monster’ like Madara would consider Tobirama’s chakra reserves to be anything less than decent. “I’m above average,” he pointed out. “And efficient.”

For some reason, that made Madara laugh. “Yeah, you are,” he said. He must have shaken his head, because strands of his hair tickled Tobirama’s cheek. “It’s barely morning, and you’ve already sent shockwaves through our entire clan.”

_Our_. Tobirama was an Uchiha now, and it seemed that he would remain one. The peace was secure. For now.

“My apologies,” he murmured, unable to find the energy to make his voice louder. “I should not have.”

Madara did not speak for long moments. In the silence, his fingers ran gentle lines up and down Tobirama’s ribs. 

(Tobirama had never liked being touched; he should make him stop. But Madara had full rights to his body, and it was… Somehow, it was…

Nice.)

“Why did you?”

“Your ways were inefficient, and I could make them less so,” Tobirama answered. “So, I did.”

Another moment of silence. Then Madara sighed. “If you draw up the plans, I’ll talk to the head of the blacksmiths to start forging the pipes and get the shinobi members with skill in doton to build the tunnels. Five should be enough for now, I think.”

Oh. That was… unexpected. “I can do that by today,” he said. He had already figured out the basic layout of the compound anyway, which was all that he needed if the pipes needed to go in the four cardinal directions and one more in the centre. “Thank you.”

Madara huffed, sounding offended. “Don’t take my words from me.”

“I’m sorry?” Tobirama offered.

“No, don’t—” This close, he could feel Madara’s chest move as he sighed. “Listen, don’t elbow or kick me or throw water in my face for this, alright? Especially the latter, because you can’t spare the chakra.”

A small splash of water wouldn’t take _that_ much, Tobirama wanted to protest. But the words didn’t escape, because Madara’s _hand_ was now slipping beneath the haori and tsumugi, splaying above the bare skin of Tobirama’s chest. No, above the tenketsu point there, and Tobirama had the briefest moment of comprehension before Madara’s shoulder rumbled with a soft hum.

And chakra seeped beneath Tobirama’s skin. 

It should feel terrible, because Madara’s chakra felt like wildfire whenever Tobirama was near him on the battlefield, always terrifying in close proximity to Hashirama’s deep forests because Madara could so easily burn him to ashes. And Madara’s affinity with fire was as strong as Tobirama’s with water, so they should clash, but—

But Madara knew what he was doing: he had stripped away the flames before pushing chakra beneath Tobirama’s skin, and all that was left behind was heat. No, not just heat, but… like sitting in front of the stove in winter with hands stretched out. Like…

Tobirama listed further to the side, and he braced himself to meet the tatami. But Madara’s arm was right there around his waist, steadying him, and Tobirama’s back was now against his chest and he could _smell_ Madara like this, with his eyes closed and most of his senses winding around Madara’s chakra sinking into his body.

Sun-baked cedar, spicy and biting on the tongue with a hidden depth of sweetness, and Tobirama’s mind brought up one of the few good memories he had left of Mother: he always sat near her incense pot whenever she laid her newly-dried tomesode on the scenting rack, and breathed in the smoke and revelled in the warmth, and—

Madara’s body was like a column of heat against Tobirama’s back, and his own body felt like a piece of ice thrust into the flames, melting further with every tendril of chakra that swept into his body.

“Holy _shit_,” Madara breathed, his breath ghosting over the nape of Tobirama’s neck.

Shuddering, Tobirama had to concur.

Then Madara’s _mouth_ was on his skin, pressed right against his pulse point, and his hair was in Tobirama’s nose and there was sunlight and cedar and _heat_ everywhere, tingling down to fingers that he hadn’t even realised were cold. His lips were parted but he made no sound, _couldn’t_, his breath caught in his throat because he had never felt so _warm_.

Madara’s hand moved from his chest to his stomach, fingers brushing against the ribs, almost caressing in the gentleness of the touch, and Tobirama arched helplessly, an indeterminable noise escaping him. His chakra sank in deeper, moved faster through Tobirama’s body, filling him up with _heat_ and Tobirama gasped with it, fingers finding Madara’s sleeve and tugging as he felt his own chakra rise up and meet it in return, water and lightning twining with fire and wind at the base of Tobirama’s ribs, right beneath Madara’s hand, and Madara—

_Snarled, _crushed Tobirama to him, and mouthed a word Tobirama couldn’t distinguish into his throat. Couldn’t, because his senses were so filled with the depth and colour of their joined chakra, sparking behind his eyes like fireworks—

“_Nii-san_,” a voice cried out in clear complaint. “I still live here!”

Madara shrieked right in his ear. Tobirama flung himself to the side to get away from the noise, and only managed to not break his nose on the chabudai by some sheer miracle.

“Izuna!” Madara squawked. “You’re awake!”

“No shit,” Izuna replied, tart. He was leaning against the frame of the door that separated the kitchen from the sitting room. “I’ve been up for a while now, making breakfast, since the two of you are _too busy_ to actually do it.” 

Wasn’t that supposed to be one of Tobirama’s duties? Granted, he hadn’t been explicitly given one last night, but given his station, he... The thought died mid-sentence; his body was still too limp from the chakra infusion to allow his brain to operate at its usual capacity. 

“We weren’t doing anything, we were just—” Whatever Madara was saying got abruptly cut off as he pointed at Tobirama. “You look indecent like that!” 

Lying on his back on the tatami, Tobirama blinked. He looked down. Oh, the obi of his tsumugi was open. “You did that,” he pointed out reasonably. 

Madara made a sound like an over-boiling tea kettle and ripped off his own haori, throwing it on Tobirama’s chest. “Cover yourself up!” he shrieked. His face, Tobirama noted, was a literal blob of red. It looked very funny.

“I’m not saying you two shouldn’t do that, Nii-san,” Izuna drawled, “because you are entirely in your right to. Just not in the sitting room, yeah? Like I said, I still—” And he cut himself off, cackling, to catch the chabudai that Madara had thrown at him. 

“Breakfast,” Madara said, sounding like he was grinding his teeth. “You said you made breakfast.” 

“Yeah,” Izuna said. “It’s just ochazuke though, because Tsurugi hasn’t portioned out the things we got from the Uzumaki yet.” For some reason, he was looking at Tobirama as he said that. 

Tobirama waved a hand. “I usually just have cold rice with pickles in the morning,” he shrugged, because he knew he was supposed to respond in some way. Then, realising that _both_ brothers were looking at him now, he elaborated, “I can’t be bothered to make anything else, and Anija wakes a lot later than I do anyway.” The communal cooks tended to deliver food according to Hashirama’s schedule, and Tobirama never saw the point in asking them to do extra work for him when he could make his own breakfast. 

“Hn,” Madara said. He stepped out of the way so Izuna could return the chabudai to its place. “Anyway, stay there, I’ll bring the food over.”

“I can—” Tobirama made to get up, Madara’s haori slipping off to the floor.

“Stay there,” Madara repeated, already turning to head for the kitchen.

Well, that did sound like an order. Tobirama folded the extra haori and laid it where, he presumed, was Madara’s place on the chabudai. It was a little difficult to tell, because it was a circle, unlike the square with its set seating arrangement that Tobirama was used to back ho— in Hashirama’s house.

“Isn’t it impractical for every household to make their own food?” he asked Izuna.

“Eh, not really?” Izuna said, whipping out placemats, chopsticks and their stands from a drawer at the side. “All of us have our own preferences and recipes, and cooking together is fun when you have the time for it.” He set the utensils down and dropped to sit. “Do the Senju _all_ eat the same thing?”

“It’s more efficient that way,” Tobirama shrugged. “There aren’t as many katon users, so keeping fires in every home is a waste of resources.”

“The more I talk to you,” Madara said, stepping into the room holding a tray, “the more I wonder how Hashirama exists as a person if the Senju are mostly like you.”

“Anija is an anomaly,” Tobirama repeated patiently. He helped to lay out the bowls – they all looked the same, which was gratifying – before picking up the haori again and offering it to Madara.

Madara took it and walked around the chabudai. Tobirama blinked as the haori fell into his lap in a heap. “Keep it,” he said. “I know you’re cold.”

“But—”

“Fire affinity,” Madara replied shortly. Then, before Tobirama could protest further, he picked up the pot and started pouring tea into the bowls.

The smell of the food – there were kombu and katsubushi in the rice, which was a luxury Tobirama rarely allowed himself – distracted him entirely, and he barely managed to remember the “ittadakimasu,” and to wait for Madara to take a bite before he started eating.

At some point during his inhaling of the food, he heard Izuna make a sound like a choking laugh before getting up. When Tobirama finally lowered his bowl, “gochisosama deshita” already on his tongue, Madara took it out of his hands, and replaced it with a full one. With even more katsuobushi this time. And with the tea already poured in, which meant that he couldn’t refuse.

Tobirama made an effort to eat slower this time, but he was still done with the second bowl before Izuna and Madara were even halfway through their first. When he tried to put it down, however, Madara nearly snatched it out of his hand and replaced it with a full one. 

“Your stores,” he started.

“Are no longer an issue because of you,” Madara said, elbow nearly in Tobirama’s face as he leaned over the chabudai to pour the tea into the rice. “There’s more than enough for you to eat your fill.”

“But—”

“If you don’t eat, I’ll take it as an insult against my abilities as a clan head,” Madara said, gaze turned away from Tobirama’s. “_And_ implying that our food isn’t good enough for you.”

Despite the chopsticks jabbing in Tobirama’s direction, there was no heat in Madara’s words. The ceramic bowl was very warm. Tobirama hesitated; he really should refuse at least once more, but…

He put the bowl down. Madara opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Tobirama took the haori still lying in his lap. He spread it out before draping it over his own shoulders, pulling it close. Sun-touched cedar teased at his nose, but his hands were still steady as he picked up his bowl again. And ate.

Madara’s satisfaction flared bright and hot, filling the room until Tobirama felt like he was sitting in front of the incense burner again. He focused on shovelling rice into his mouth.

When the third bowl was empty, he dodged Madara’s hands trying to take it from him. “Thank you for the food,” he said firmly.

“Are you sure?” Tobirama couldn’t really see his face clearly, but he had a distinct impression that Madara arched an eyebrow.

“If I eat anymore, I’d throw up,” Tobirama told him honestly. He really did feel full to bursting, and it was mildly uncomfortable in its strangeness. But good, at the same time.

Madara peered at him for a moment more before he nodded, putting the wooden ladle down.

“You eat like you’re still a growing boy,” Izuna said, speaking through the chopsticks still held between his teeth. “You’re going to eat us out of hearth and home at this rate.”

Tobirama resisted the urge to pull them out; Izuna’s lack of table manners did help to show him that he was being teased. “That’s an exaggeration,” he rolled his eyes. “Eating rice won’t do that unless you’re a peasant farmer, and that’s usually the fault of the lord’s unfair taxes than any fault of the child.” 

Izuna’s lips twitched. “I would’ve thought the chakra exhaustion is a better excuse, but sure.” He finally took the chopsticks out of his mouth. “I see that you don’t deny being a growing child, though.” 

“I _am_ one,” Tobirama pointed out. “And so are you.”

“Excuse me,” Izuna huffed, face scrunching up in offence. “I am _eighteen_. A full-grown _man_.” 

Not with the way he acted, he wasn’t. Still, that was a surprise: he had thought that Izuna was the same age as him, not older. 

“Tobirama,” Madara said. “How old are you?” 

“I thought Anija told you,” Tobirama blinked. When Madara shook his head, Tobirama shrugged. “Sixteen.” 

“_What_?!” If one Uchiha was loud, two shouting simultaneously was even louder. Tobirama winced. 

“How can you be _two whole years_ younger than me?” Izuna cried. 

“Hashirama _did not_ tell me that!” Madara yelled at exactly the same time. 

Frowning, Tobirama crossed his arms. “I have been told that I neither look nor act my age,” he said. “In any case, I don’t see any reason why it matters.” 

“Of course it does!” Madara’s flailing arms somehow did not knock anything off the chabudai, which spoke well of his coordination. “I— you— sixteen!” 

“Yes,” Tobirama said, because confirmation seemed to be needed. When Madara continued sputtering, Tobirama scowled. “I was considered a capable enough shinobi for assassination missions by the time I was four years old. I don’t see how I can be seen to be too young for anything else at sixteen.”

Madara went very still. Izuna froze with his bowl halfway to his mouth. 

“I,” Madara said, enunciating the word heavily, “am going to _murder_ Hashirama.” 

“What is the point of a peace treaty if you’re going to threaten to kill Anija at least once every hour?” Tobirama demanded, frustrated. 

Madara opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Izuna leaned forward. His bowl clacked against the wooden table as he set it down. “Tobirama,” he said, “how old were you when you first went to Uzushio by yourself?” 

“Why do you want to know?” Tobirama narrowed his eyes. 

“Curiosity,” Izuna waved a hand. 

Like hell it was. 

“Indulge me.”

If telling Izuna this would stop both brothers from thinking of him as anything but a capable shinobi... 

“I was nine when the contract was first signed,” he said, keeping his voice flat. “The Uzumaki sent an escort to the Senju lands to lead me to their island that year, but I returned alone, because I had already figured out the main route and its alternatives after the first trip.” He paused. “They offered to escort me back, but they also insisted on calling me by that ridiculous title, so I refused.” 

Madara folded his hands on the table. “No one else can do what you can with water, though,” he said. 

“That might be so, but Uzushio has already paid for my services with the contract,” Tobirama countered. “Given that, there is no reason to treat me like they do, especially since I am making full use of my abilities like all Senju should.” He frowned, searching for words to explain. “To not do it would be a failure on my part, and to do so is merely the fulfilment of my duty.” 

Absolute incomprehension met him. Tobirama dragged a hand through his hair. Mito had warned him that he might not be understood here within the Uchiha, but he had not thought that the differences would go to such a fundamental level. 

“If,” he started, “you expend a great deal of resources on a good weapon – your sword, Izuna, or your gunbai, Madara – you expect to be able to use it to its fullest potential, yes?” He didn’t wait for a response. “You will clean it and treat it with respect, of course, but you will not, say, build an altar for it.” 

“Of course not, but—” Izuna said. 

“But you’re not a weapon, Tobirama,” Madara said, voice steady and soft. “You’re a person.” 

“Yes,” Tobirama nodded. “A weapon requires far less effort to deal with.” 

Madara’s chakra spiked with a wave of distress so sudden and strong enough that it crashed right against the wall of Tobirama’s courtesy-built defences, and shattered them entirely. Tobirama barely swallowed back the gasp as he reared backwards.

“A joke,” he scrambled for words. “I meant that as a joke.” The distress _increased_; Tobirama fought down the wince, fingers clenching hard on the chabudai’s edge. 

“I don’t understand the reason for your agitation, but I can certainly feel it. Please _stop_.”

Elbows rising to rest on the wooden surface, Madara dropped his head into his hands. Had Tobirama said something _wrong_ again?

“I can’t just _stop _like that,” he said, voice muffled by both his hands and the chakra storm ripping through Tobirama’s senses. “Emotions aren’t like a candle flame that you can blow on to make disappear.”

Taking a deep breath, Tobirama sank deep within himself. The water always calling from his blood surged, and he imagined it whirling around him, building walls until he was seated right in the eye of a typhoon.

He was cold again. But the piercing pain of Madara’s distress had faded. 

Now that he could think… the form of expression was certainly different – more metaphorical and flowery than even Hashirama was inclined towards – but the actual meaning was _exactly _the same. Hah.

“I see why you and Anija get along so well,” he observed. “The two of you are a lot alike.”

Immediately, Madara drew himself up, chest _and_ cheeks puffing out. “That’s the most insulting thing you can say to me!”

That was meant as _praise_, because there was no one Tobirama respected or listened to or loved more than his elder brother. “I did not mean it as one,” he protested.

“I am _nothing_,” Madara said, hair now joining his other body parts in blowing outwards, “like that oaf!” The strands were starting to _flail_. Was Madara’s hair actually _sentient_?

“You’re more perplexing than he is,” Tobirama admitted distractedly. “But that might be because I’ve had years to get used to him.”

“That’s not—” Madara jabbed a finger at his nose. “You’re supposed to say that I’m nothing like him!”

“But the two of you _are_ very similar,” Tobirama reasoned. “And I don’t see why you’re being so offended by it. Anija is well-respected among shinobi as a whole, so—”

“He is,” as Madara flapped his hands, his hair joined in; Tobirama was _fascinated_, “an idiot!”

“Yes,” Tobirama agreed easily. “What’s the issue?”

“I am not an idiot!” 

“You saw the pumps in the capital and wanted to copy them for your compound, but didn’t use the Sharingan to literally copy them like you could’ve,” Tobirama pointed out. “Like reason should’ve told you to.”

“That’s—” Madara sputtered.

But whatever he wanted to say was interrupted by the loud _thump_ of Izuna’s head hitting the floor. _His_ face was red, too, and he was gasping for breath as he smacked the tatami with his hand, over and over. “I knew it,” he gasped out. “I _knew_ this would be fun.” 

“Izuna…” Madara growled.

“This is the most entertained I have,” Izuna dragged in a long breath, “_ever_ been, on _any _morning.” He flopped onto his back, throwing an arm over his face as he shook with what Tobirama presumed was laughter. “Consider the scarring I received earlier forgiven.”

“_Izuna_!” Madara shrieked, and leapt over the chabudai. Izuna choked on his cackles as Madara hooked his arm around his neck. 

Tobirama inched out of the way, pulling the chabudai with him. Then he watched, head tilted to the side.

They were being very loud and mostly incomprehensible, Madara hissing cut-off expletives and insults while Izuna’s responses were utterly mangled by his laughter and panting breaths. And they were touching so much, Madara now grabbing both of Izuna’s cheeks and pulling them in such a way that would’ve sent a waterfall down Hashirama’s head if he had ever done that to him.

Tobirama should hate it; should leave the room. But their chakras were flaring with joy, bright enough to lap heat at the edge of his senses even through the typhoon he had shielded them with. And even as their tussling took them rolling across the floor, they were careful enough to avoid crashing against him. 

It had been less than a day, Tobirama reminded himself, pulling the two haoris Madara had given him closer to his body. Less than a morning, even. He shouldn’t hope so much, shouldn’t believe so quickly. And he didn’t. 

But there was a silver of hope, nonetheless.

No point in lingering. Whatever would come, would come. Right now, he needed to draw up plans for a rudimentary irrigation system.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took _five chapters _for MadaTobi to even be hinted at. Please tell me if the wait was worth it.
> 
> And in case it’s not clear: Madara, Hashirama, and Mito are twenty; Touka is nineteen; Izuna is eighteen, and Tobirama is sixteen. 
> 
> Thank you so, so much for all of your support; I treasure every comment and they really do keep me writing. All of you are awesome and at some point in my life I will find time to reply!!!


	6. silk fan, steel pins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** More plot and politics. Tobirama’s part in this chapter is very minor. 
> 
> Also, Madara is very much a traditional Japanese man; i.e. he’s misogynistic (remember his insults to Tsunade? Or, uh, Chapter 2?), and he spends this entire chapter around Mito and Touka.

_Dear Madara,_

_Mito tells me that I shouldn’t be writing you so soon, because we have barely finalised the peace agreement. Something about showing a lack of trust? But you know that I trust you already, so I’m writing anyway._

_How’s Tobirama? I know it has only been two days since he’s arrived at your home, and he has been gone from me for longer than that before. But he’s my little brother, I worry, and he hasn’t replied to the letter I sent him. Please tell me if he’s okay._

_With love,  
Hashirama._

_Idiot,_

_Your brother got your letter at the same time I got this one, so of course he hasn’t had time to reply. _

_I have a bone to pick with you about your method of delivery. Who has foxes as a summon, and uses one as a messenger? You freaked the hell OUT of my compound’s guards, you damnable idiot; talking foxes generally don’t call to mind ‘summon,’ but ‘kitsune no youko,’ and I’m sure even if you’re a dumbass, you know that. Don’t use them again. Use your wife’s summons or something, I’m sure they’re more innocuous._

_Tobirama is fine. I’m not sure about the integrity of my compound, though._

_Madara_

_Dear Madara,_

_What are you talking about? I don’t have a summoning contract – I’m linked too closely to plants for animals to like me – so I am already using my wife’s. The summon belongs to Mito, and he’s a nogitsune. He tells me that you’re pretty rude, which makes me happy because it means you’re not only rude to me. You’re just like that!_

_(His name is Mae, by the way. He likes peaches.)_

_Anyway, what IS Tobirama doing to your compound that you’re worried about it? Don’t tell me that he’s already neck-deep in a project. I didn’t think the Uchiha have a lab! Please remind him to eat at least once a day, and sleep once every three!_

_With love,  
Hashirama_

_Dumbass,_

_Did you tell that demon fox of your wife’s that I’m going to give him peaches? He refused to leave until we found some dried ones that one of the civilians have been hoarding. We don’t have any more, so I sent him back._

_This falcon’s name is Fuyume, and he likes melon seeds. Feed him or he bites._

_What do you mean, eat once a day and sleep once every three? There’s something extremely wrong with that frequency, and you seem to be implying that your brother tends to do less than that. How is it he not a short, malnourished stick if he neither eats nor sleeps?_

_I guess what Tobirama is doing can be considered a project? He took one look at my clan compound and decided that everything is inefficient. He’s been here less than a week and he’s already convinced the blacksmiths and the shinobi to build an irrigation system. While it’s being made, he’s been calling water from the damned sky every single morning. He’s saved a lot of people a great deal of work, actually. _

_But he wakes at dawn to do that, which means I’VE been waking at dawn since that amount of chakra usage is really fucking jarring, so I’ve started taking afternoon naps and Izuna has started calling me an old man because of it. This is all your brother’s fault. I blame you._

_Madara_

_Oy,_

_Two more bones to pick with you: Why didn’t you tell me that your brother is sixteen? And how the FUCK did he get the bastard fishermen of my clan to like him?_

_Madara_

_PS: This one is Natsuru, and she likes worms. Let her loose in your garden for a bit – I know you have one, you mokuton freak – and she’ll find her way back after she’s had her fill. Fuyume will bring your reply._

_Dear Madara,_

_I’m really happy to see Fuyume and Natsuru, thank you for introducing them to me! You mentioned that you wanted to try your hand at falconry when we were meeting by the river, and they mean that you got to do it! That’s amazing, Madara, because you got to do something you like, that you have time despite all of your duties. That’s always so good!_

_Anyway, your letter(s) made me really happy, too, because that sounds exactly like Tobirama. He went with _(heavy ink smudge) _my father once to the capital, and then came back with all of these blueprints and ideas about an irrigation system that made watering our mulberry trees so much easier. And it was good for the food crops, too, because he made it possible to control the level of water in the field, so we could grow herbs and vegetables in some of them without worrying that those plants would be drowned when the rice fields flood. The fact that he’s bringing those ideas to the Uchiha means that he found a way to be useful. That’s important and I’m happy that he gets to have it._

_I don’t understand why you’re mad that that I never told you Tobirama’s age. I_ _DID tell you; he was eight when we were twelve, remember? _(more heavy scribbling) _I’m pretty sure I told you that when I was talking about how my little brother is really smart and has so many ideas about everything even though he’s four years younger than us. Did you forget about that?_

_And no, I don’t think you’re an old man, Madara. Because if you are, it means I am too, and I know I’m not. Also, I don’t know what you mean about the fishermen and Tobirama. I’m not sure how I am supposed to know either?_

_With love,  
Hashirama_

_PS: I had to chase Fuyume down to write this, because I was so excited by your letter(s) that I forgot entirely about the most important thing. Mito has managed to get us a meeting with the daimyo to discuss the building of the village! It will be at the end of next week, so we should be setting off to the capital by the end of this one. Shall we meet at the river bank where we used to meet at dawn three days from now?_

_I’m not sure if you’re planning to bring Tobirama with you to the capital, but in case you’re not, can you bring him to the meeting point? I miss my brother and I want to see him._

_Overly-tall tree-man,_

_The Uchiha will meet you at the banks of the Naka at dawn two days from now. Tobirama will be there, though he won’t be going with us to be capital. He’s needed at the compound to oversee the building of the irrigation system. I’ve leaving Hikaku and Tsurugi in charge, so his safety will be assured. He’s won over enough people anyway._

_You told me your brother’s age ONCE eight years ago and you expect me to remember? What kind of sense is THAT, idiot?! Why didn’t you remind me when we were talking about him being my CONCUBINE? Or even after I laid my haori over him?_

_Why the actual fuck are you so excited about me getting to pick up falconry? When I told you, it was already pretty much confirmed that I would be. I had to put it off a bit because I awakened my Sharingan and had to train it, but after I got a handle on that, I could do as much falconry as I wished. Dad even formally presented me with the first pair of gloves that Mom made for me. _

_Do the Senju not have hobbies or something? With how much Tobirama keeps talking about efficiency, I’m starting to suspect that you guys take “a thousand skills” a bit too damned seriously._

_Anyway, I should be surprised that your brother came up with a way to control water levels in the fields, because that should be impossible, but I’m not. It actually just makes me wonder how the Senju are surviving without him. I was a bit worried about that, given the Uzushio deal, but now I am even more so because it seems like he does practically EVERYTHING over there._

_Which brings me to the fishermen thing. Look, our fishermen are mostly retired blacksmiths and even a few old shinobi, and they’re cantankerous assholes. Tobirama went with them one day to main Naka river – further up from where we used to meet, still within Uchiha territory, so don’t worry, they aren’t trespassing – and he parted the waters and let them just pick fish from the banks. Hours of back-breaking work reduced to literal minutes of easy pickings. They love him. The preservation scrolls are almost all filled with fish, and I even had some of the assholes warn me against eating too much because they’re “for besshitsu-san.” He’s inciting my clansmen to revolt against me, that’s what he’s doing._

_He said that he used to do the fishing for the Senju, too, and I’m starting to have an idea about why you told me to remind him to eat once a day and sleep once every three, because it sounds like he shouldn’t have time for more than that given all the shit he does in your compound. Hence my question: are you surviving without him?_

_(There have been three meals every day – the woman who cooks for us has taken to bringing him his meals wherever he is, and somehow that guilted him into coming back to the house regularly to eat – and I’ve forbidden him to work after dinner, though I’m not sure when he actually ends up sleeping. In any case, he hasn’t overextended his chakra reserves since the first day. I meant it when I said that I will treat him as one of mine, so you need to stop fretting so hard that I can feel it all the way over here.)_

_Madara_

_PS: I just realised that someone completed large swathes of my paperwork for me. I know it’s not Izuna; I know my brother’s handwriting. Guess I know for sure that YOUR brother is going against my orders of not working after dinner, and I can’t even be mad at him for it._

_How do I get him to calm the actual fuck down? His productivity is freaking me out. _

_Dear Madara,_

_Mito tells me to ask you for “steel pins, winter-style, if Uchiha-sama is so amenable,” and to bring them along tomorrow. She also said that Tobirama will know what she means, which is good, because I have no idea and I’m not sure if you do, either._

_Tomorrow! I’d get to see my little brother tomorrow, and I’d get to see you, too! I’m so excited that I’m writing this in the garden because I was making the floorboards sprout!_

_We’re usually too busy with work to spend time on our hobbies, haha. And if you ever find a way to make Tobirama slow down, please tell me. I’ve been trying to get him to do that for more than a decade without success, and usually I only manage to convince him to take a break by telling him that he would be more productive AFTER resting. _

_I’m actually really confused about why you’re so freaked out about Tobirama’s age. Sixteen is three years older than Mito and me when we married, and _[heavy ink smudge] _my father had started talking to some other clans about marriage contracts for Tobirama at around the same time. (Luckily, he never found anything suitable, or else we couldn’t have this!) Is there a difference in clan cultures at work here?_

__(Huge smudged patch, entirely unreadable.)  
_  
Thank you for telling me about Tobirama and the fishermen, Madara. Thank you for telling me that he had made a friend within your household. Thank you for telling me they like him, and that they’re grateful to him. I trust you to take care of him, but I was worried that he would be ignored or worse when you can't watch over him. To know that he’s appreciated there is…_

_You have no idea how much that means to me to hear that. So, thank you, Madara, from the bottom of my heart. I am very grateful._

_With love,  
Hashirama_

_Hashirama,_

_Once we reach the capital, we’re going to have a long talk about you, your clan, and your little brother. With all that you’re telling me AND deliberately NOT telling me in these letters, you owe me. _

_This is your only warning._

_Madara_

__

__

“Mito will send word once you guys are heading back,” Hashirama was saying. “Will you come out here then so I can see you again, Tobirama?”

“If I’m allowed,” Tobirama said.

Madara, standing at the side to give the two brothers some semblance of privacy, narrowed his eyes. “Hashirama,” he started.

“I’m not going,” the big lug said, turning one of his huge and fake smiles on him. Those never existed when they were children, Madara thought. Or maybe they did, and Madara had just never noticed.

“There’s no point in me being there,” Hashirama continued, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “And there’s plenty left for me to do back in the Senju compound, so...” 

“The Senju representative will be me,” Hashirama’s wife said, speaking from behind her open fan. “Touka-kun,” she nodded to the tall woman now clasping Tobirama’s shoulder with a hand, “is my escort.” With most of her face covered, Madara couldn’t see her smirking, but he _knew _she was. “And my apprentice.”

Turning to him, Senju Touka gave him a low bow that looked mocking. “Please take care of me,” she murmured.

Madara stared at them for a moment before whirling back to Hashirama. “You’re sending two women?” he asked, unable to keep his voice from going up a pitch. “_Only_ women?”

Hashirama cocked his head to the side. “Mito is my wife, and carries the seal of the Senju clan head,” he explained. “Touka is my heir. Why should I send anyone else?”

Reaching out, Madara grabbed his friend by the arm and dragged him to the side. “They’re _women_,” he hissed, placing emphasis on the word so Hashirama would _understand_. “How do you expect the daimyo to take us seriously if you don’t send men?”

“But we have men, Madara,” Hashirama told him, his fake smile widening further. “You and Izuna are going, aren’t you? That’s more than enough, what do you need me there for?”

“The village is _your_ idea!” Madara protested.

“_Our_ idea,” Hashirama corrected, patting Madara on the shoulder. On a normal occasion, Madara would’ve yelled and slapped it away, but now he had other priorities. “As long as one of the progenitors of the idea is present, why would the other one need to be there?” 

“But—” 

“Don’t worry so much, Madara,” Hashirama said. “Mito has heard me talking about it more than enough that she knows exactly what we need. And,” he squeezed Madara’s shoulder, “we can have that talk when you’re back. Or when we’re building the village of our dreams together. I promise.”

That wasn’t the issue. Sure, Madara had hoped to speak with Hashirama about his clan and brother en route to the capital, or at the end of each day after their meetings with the nobles and the daimyo, but there was peace now, and Hashirama was practically his brother-in-law. There would be other chances. 

No, the bigger issue here was that the Senju were sending only women, and everyone knew that women had no place in important, public matters. Especially not a meeting on the daimyo himself.

He really should have insisted that Akimichi Chouto joined them for this instead of giving in to the Akimichi’s request to have the first privilege of joining when the village was up and ready. Given that the Senju weren’t even a noble clan _and_ they were sending only women as representatives, the Akimichi’s rumoured influence on the Fire Court might actually be the only thing that would allow the village to be formed.

“Do you trust me about this?” Hashirama asked suddenly, interrupting Madara before he could protest further. “Do you trust that I want this village badly enough that I won’t jeopardise our chances of having it?”

“Of course,” Madara said. If there was nothing else he had learned about Hashirama during the week they spent on Akimichi lands, it was that Hashirama’s dreams of a village of peace had only grown stronger with time. Hashirama would never risk them not coming true when they were already so close.

Still, why would the daimyo even listen if he was faced with mere women? He would be insulted; Madara knew _he_ would be.

“If I send a summon for you, will you come?” he demanded.

“You won’t need me,” Hashirama insisted. “In fact, you might want to relax when you’re in the capital, Madara. Mito will handle everything.”

Madara turned to look at the woman. Her back was to him, seated by the river bank to stare at her own reflection. As Madara watched, she fussed with her hair, having loosened it from the twin buns she had worn at the Akimichi’s. Now she was plaiting it and bundling it up, pinning the blood-red mass with the handful of steel pins that Tobirama was handing her, one by one.

Tobirama had gone straight to the blacksmiths the moment Madara had told him of the woman’s words, and they had done as he had asked. Kabato had come to him afterwards to report: they were plain steel, flat and one-inch wide at one end. When Madara had taken one of them to look for himself, he realised that the narrow tip was rounded; it couldn’t even be used as a makeshift senbon.

They were just hairpins, nothing of significance at all. 

How could he trust a woman who would put her back to important men, on her _husband_, to focus on her vanity?

“I trust you,” Madara said finally. “But I don’t trust her.” He barely knew anything about her other than her name. “Either of them,” he added, belatedly remembering that the Touka woman would be coming as well.

“You don’t have to, right now,” Hashirama told him. He was looking at his wife, and the soft, besotted smile he had on made Madara’s frown deepen even further. “Just do me a favour, Madara: give her a chance to earn your trust. You won’t regret it, I promise.” Something must have shown on Madara’s face, because Hashirama added, “On my honour.”

“Shinobi have none,” Madara grumbled. But he knew it was useless; the sheer belief Hashirama had in his wife was blaring so brightly from his eyes that Madara needed neither his sensor abilities nor the Sharingan to feel his sincerity. “Alright, but if I call for you, you _will_ come, get it?”

“Yes, yes,” Hashirama threw his head back and laughed. “You’re so eager to spend time with me, Madara! I’m so lucky!”

“What,” Madara spluttered, “that’s not— Hashirama!”

Chuckles booming loud enough to scare off a few birds around them, Hashirama lifted a hand. His wife glanced at him, and there was a small smile on her red-painted lips as she inclined her head. Beside her, Senju Touka snorted.

“Don’t worry, Hashirama,” she drawled. “We won’t damage them _too_ badly.”

Before Madara could grab Hashirama and force him to explain _that_ comment, Hashirama grinned. “I’ll hold you both to that,” he said. Then, with a wink at the women, he vanished in a whirl of leaves; his personalised-to-be-annoying version of a shunshin.

“You know,” Izuna said, “I’m starting to feel like ikebana, pretty and decorative and useless.”

“Don’t insult ikebana, Uchiha,” Senju Touka said, lifting her head up to stare at where Izuna was seated on a high branch. “They have meaning and purpose. Unlike you right now.”

“Should I offer my help with Mito-san’s hair?” Izuna shot back immediately, arching a brow. “I’m not quite sure what I can do with that. Maybe a katon or two so she would _really_ have fire for hair?”

Before Senju Touka could reply, Tobirama spoke. “Aneue.”

“Of course I will look, Tobirama,” Hashirama’s wife said, standing up with, Madara grudgingly admitted, a motion fluid enough to imply some kind of shinobi training. “If I find any new inventions brought in from the lands across the continents, I will bring them for you.” The back of her hand brushed the air over his cheek. “There will be plenty of time to explore, after all.”

Lowering his head, Tobirama murmured, “This little brother is grateful.” For some reason, that made Senju Touka burst into raucous laughter. Hashirama’s wife snapped her fan open to cover her face again, so Madara couldn’t see _her_ reaction.

“You Senju are _so fucking weird_,” Izuna noted from his perch.

“I can say the same of the Uchiha,” Senju Touka seemed to be unable to help herself from sniping back. “Given how much their clan heir resemble a crow right now.”

Izuna sniffed theatrically. “And what’s wrong with crows? They’re intelligent, noble creatures.”

“They pluck eyes off corpses,” Senju Touka told him, tart.

Rolling his eyes – Izuna always flirted like a small boy pulling a girl’s pigtails, and Madara could only hope that this particular infatuation fizzled out quickly like the others – Madara turned to his concubine. “Tobirama.”

“Madara,” Tobirama returned in exactly the same tone, one eyebrow cocked.

Barely more than a week, and Tobirama was already giving him cheek. Madara repressed a grin. “You better start heading back before people start coming here to find you,” he said. “Then they’ll complain that I’m keeping you for too long the moment I come back.”

Tobirama snorted. Right before he could move in a shunshin, however, Madara caught his wrist. He couldn’t stop himself from sliding his fingertips down the fragile bones there, feeling the heat of Tobirama’s pulse thrum against his skin as he checked his chakra levels.

Right now, it was fine. Good. 

“Don’t exhaust yourself,” he said. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Izuna rolling his eyes. He ignored him.

“I gave my word,” Tobirama reminded. “Are you distrusting your own clansman, Clan Head of the Uchiha?” 

“When it comes to not overextending yourself? Or continuing to work even when tired and giving some sort of stupid excuse like ‘it’s not chakra exhaustion yet so it’s fine'?” Madara gave him a flat stare. “Yes, I am.”

Tobirama scowled, spinning on his heel hard enough to have his haori – the one Madara had given him on the day he officially took him as concubine, Madara noted, pleased – flaring out. “You’re worse than Anija,” he proclaimed. “I will see you soon.”

Then he vanished in a shunshin that was _also _accompanied with leaf litter. Which he did to deliberately annoy Madara, because Madara had seen him shunshin enough the past week to know he didn’t usually tack it on. He fought to not sneeze.

Sometimes, it was actually really easy for Madara to believe that Tobirama was sixteen. He still wasn’t sure if he was glad or horrified about that. And like most things he didn’t know how to feel about, he decided to not think about it. He turned back to the women.

“Shall we?” 

Hashirama’s wife smiled. Her fan snapped close, and she brought it close to her hair. It _vanished_ and somehow, she withdrew a straw hat. From her _hair_, where she couldn’t have hidden it because it was twice the size of her _head_. As Madara gaped helplessly, she put it on. Thin black silk cascaded from the brim to obscure her face.

“Whenever you’re ready, Uchiha-sama,” she murmured, and the bend of the knees was _definitely _mocking. Especially with Senju Touka snickering at her side.

Suddenly, Madara remembered the storage scrolls in his small pack came from Uzushio, and the Uzumaki envoy had acted like giving away scores upon scores of one of the most important resources of a shinobi’s life didn’t mean anything. 

A hand tapped on his jaw. Madara clicked his mouth shut instinctively, aiming a glare at Izuna.

“It’s already an hour past dawn,” his little brother said, voice dry. “You can think loudly while moving, Nii-san.”

Madara smacked the back of his head without even looking. “Yeah,” he said, grabbing his pack from where he had tossed it to the ground and slinging it behind him. “Let’s go.”

“Barely a step up from sleeping in trees,” Izuna snorted, scanning his surroundings.

Looking at the ramshackle building that they were given for their stay in the capital, Madara had to agree. 

Kudzu roots ran up walls of cracked stone, dull brown blending in with the grey. The garden looked overran with weeds even in winter, and the pipe which promised running water was covered in rust. When Madara pressed his hand on the lever, it creaked loudly and a single trickle ran out. 

Bails upon bails of rice the Uchiha had paid the daimyo as tithes, and _this_ was the housing they were given for their stay in the capital. Madara squeezed his eyes shut to stem the incoming rage.

“Poor lodgings for nobility,” Hashirama’s wife noted.

Raising an eyebrow, Madara turned to her. “You seemed to have no issues with the forests,” he said. An unexpected boon, really; he would have flown into a truly raging temper if she had even made a single word of complaint about sleeping out in the open during their week-long travel to the capital.

“That was a matter of choice,” the woman said, reaching up to one of the steel pins in her hair again. “But this… I surely do not need to tell you how much of an insult this is, Uchiha-sama.”

Madara snorted, “You’re likely to be the only one who will call me that here.” He tried the lever again. This time, not even a single trickle escaped. His eyebrow twitched with irritation.

Did the daimyo _want_ them to appear in front of him filthy and travel-worn? Or were the Uchiha – and the Senju – supposed to insult the man by refusing his hospitality to find an inn that was actually _liveable_?

“Don’t bother,” Senju Touka said, taking a step closer to Hashirama’s wife. Then she huffed out a breath, because a whole jar had literally _dropped_ from one of the pins, half the size of a full-grown man. Madara stared.

The woman had pulled clothes, rations, water-cleansing pills, and even _tents_ out of her hair during their travels, but this – _this_ – was the biggest object she had whipped out. 

“How the hell do you _do _that?” Izuna blurted out, clearly unable to help himself. “You had literally _nothing_ with you when you came to the river, so where does all that stuff even come from?!”

Senju Touka gave another one of her low, rough cackles. “We would tell you, Uchiha, but we can’t,” she said, setting the jar down on the ground in front of them. “You didn’t allow us.” Straightening, she caught _another one_, and Izuna yelped as she tossed it to him.

“What do you mean, _we _didn’t allow you?” Madara narrowed his eyes.

“Exactly that, Uchiha-sama,” Hashirama’s wife said, her low voice placid. “You refused the scrolls of Uzushio’s sealing knowledge, did you not?” 

Madara blinked. “I thought seals are—” he started.

“Only used for wards and storage, and you have plenty enough for those?” Hashirama’s wife finished for him. When Madara nodded, brusque, she covered her mouth and tittered. “There are many uses for seals, Uchiha-sama; those two are only the most basic of uses.” 

“Can I give him a hint, Mito?” Senju Touka asked.

“I trust your judgment, Touka-kun,” the other woman nodded.

“Stop thinking that she’s keeping these things,” she nudged a jar with a foot, “in her pins and you might actually get somewhere.” She peeled her lips back into a grin that showed off her bright, white teeth.

Something Madara had learned about Tobirama: there was a certain _deliberateness_ in the way he portioned out information about himself and his clan, giving only bits and pieces that were difficult to put together into a whole truth. Hashirama did the same in a different way: he spoke _around_ things instead of _about _them, leaving hints scattered like crumbs that lead them into a wild goose chase of theories and assumptions. 

Which meant, Madara thought, that this wasn’t only a hint. It was an _answer_. 

Not storage. Certainly not wards. He resisted the urge to turn his Sharingan on again to stare at those pins – he had done it before they reached the capital, and all he found was a complex chakra web that he couldn’t even begin to unravel – instead running possibilities through his head.

Given that they weren’t supposed to use chakra in the capital and what Tobirama had said about conspicuousness, there weren’t many.

“Have you been summoning supplies from the Uchiha compound,” Madara drawled out, “or have you kept it to the Senju’s?”

To his great surprise, Hashirama’s wife _laughed_. Belly-deep and loud, with her head thrown back and no attempts made to cover her face.

“That was _quick_, Uchiha-sama,” she said.

Madara twitched. “Do you expect me to be _stupid_, woman?”

She lowered her head and bent her knees, the black pins in her hair shining in the light. “This unworthy woman does not dare,” she said. 

Taking a deep breath, Madara told himself, again, that he was _not _going to lose his temper on this woman. That he had to make a token effort to get along with her, because she was Hashirama’s wife.

He fixed his gaze onto the jars of water on the ground. “Thank you for the water.” His voice barely remained even. “Now if you will us excuse us, we will wash and ready ourselves for the daimyo.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I’m fine right now,” Izuna said, not even bothering to keep his mirth from his voice. “This is plenty entertaining.”

Madara growled under his breath – his little brother was supposed to be on _his_ side, not taking joy in his suffering – before he strode forward, bending down and hefting one of the jars onto his shoulder. Without another word, he darted over to Izuna, grabbed him by the obi of his heavy, winter-styled nagagi, and threw him over the other one.

“Nii-san!” Izuna yelped right in his ear. “Put me _down_!”

“Excuse us,” Madara said, pitching his voice to cut right through Izuna’s screeching, and walked faster towards one of the bedrooms he saw on the way here, because—

“_Katon_—” Flinging Izuna at the nearest wall, he kicked the door closed. 

Izuna flailed and, somehow, managed to catch himself well enough to land on the balls of his feet like one of the clan cats. He glared, Sharingan whirling. “Dammit, Nii-san, what was that for?”

“I’m pretty sure that you can figure out your crimes without me telling you,” Madara said, voice dry as he placed the jar on the floor. He almost breathed a small katon between his lips before he remembered the capital’s restrictions on chakra. He popped the wax seal out with his nails. 

“Watch out,” Izuna muttered darkly. “I’m going to burn your hair in front of the daimyo, see that I won’t.” 

“Better not,” Madara said, tossing Izuna a towel from the storage scroll holding all of their clothes. His brother flailed and barely managed to catch it before it fell to the floor. “I kind of like where your head is, and I’d really rather not go on a rampage of revenge against the daimyo because you decided to do something stupid.”

Huffing, Izuna walked over, already stripping out of his clothes. He dipped the towel into the jar and started running it over his face and neck, face scrunching up from the chill. “Nii-san,” he said, voice a little muffled. “You _do_ know what those seals of hers can do _here_, right?”

Already stripped and in the middle of scrubbing dirt from underneath his nails, Madara blinked. “What do you mean?”

Opening his mouth, Izuna closed it. “Nope,” he said, turning away and sticking his nose into the air. “I’m not telling you. You can figure it out yourself.”

His little brother was so _dramatic_; Madara rolled his eyes. “Sure,” he said, dipping his towel into the water and scrubbing all over himself as quickly as he could. “Because you prefer having entertainment over letting your big brother have his _dignity_.”

“Be honest, Nii-san, you’ve never had dignity,” Izuna grinned over his shoulder. When Madara kicked at him, he hopped away, laughing. “See? Our proud head of the clan, trying— oy! Nii-san!”

Withdrawing his foot from Izuna’s naked buttcheek, Madara raised an eyebrow. “You were saying?”

“We have two hours to get to the daimyo’s residence?” Izuna scowled at him. “Less, probably, and I still need to fix your hair.”

“My hair doesn’t need any—” Madara sputtered, choking on his words as Izuna, damn him, upended half of the now-freezing cold water over his head. “_Izuna!_” he barely managed to turn the roar into a hiss.

“I can’t hear you over the filth that’s in your hair, Nii-san!” Izuna said cheerfully. Before Madara could grab him and throw him to a wall again, Izuna flung a towel to his face, nearly suffocating him, before snatching Madara’s out of his hand and starting to rub it over his wet hair. All of the twigs and leaves and dirt and bits of birds’ nests tugged at the strands, threatening to rip them out entirely, and Madara _flailed_.

“What’s the _point_,” Izuna said, heartlessly ignoring his older brother’s struggles as he continued on his fruitless quest of getting Madara’s hair to look decent, “of keeping your hair long if you’re not going to brush it?”

Madara tried to answer, but there was a towel in the way.

“What?”

He peeled it off. “I _said_, my hair makes me recognisable,” he said. “And I’m not as vain as you!”

“This has nothing to do with _vanity_, Nii-san,” Izuna said severely. “You’re going to end up with lice in your hair one day, I swear.”

“Lice comes less often to dirty hair—” the other words were lost in a yelp as Izuna started yanking out all of the debris from the road hard enough to nearly make Madara slip on the puddles on the ground. “_Izuna_! Are you trying to make me bald?”

“That’d certainly make things easier,” Izuna said, teeth clearly gritted. 

Huffing, Madara dropped down to sit on the floor. He was naked anyway, and the dust could be cleaned off easily later. “I bet Tobirama never tortured Hashirama by treating _his_ long hair this way,” he grumbled.

“Hashirama has _straight_ hair,” Izuna said, irritatingly unperturbed by Madara’s change in position as he slid down to sit behind him. “While yours is… I don’t know what it is, even. Calling it a bush seems insulting to bushes.”

“You have the exact same hair,” Madara pointed out. So did their father, actually, which meant that neither of them had a chance of escaping the trait.

“I _tie it_,” Izuna pointed out. “_All_ the time. So stuff doesn’t _get caught in it_.”

Madara opened his mouth to reply, but Izuna shoved at his head. He bent obligingly, shivering slightly in the chill of the air – there was only so much a fire affinity could do when it was winter and the stone of the house had cracked enough to let in cold drafts – as Izuna pulled out the oil from the storage scroll and started rubbing it into the strands. 

Much as Madara loathed to admit to liking any part of Izuna’s vanity-induced fussing, this bit wasn’t all that objectionable. Sure, he would have to wash his hair with soap once he was back in the compound and brush it all out so that the oil didn’t get stuck and congeal on his scalp, but Izuna’s fingers were gentle as he carded through the strands.

They didn’t have time for this when they were at the Akimichi’s. Not that it was necessary, anyway; Madara wasn’t joking when he said that his wild hair made him recognisable, especially among shinobi. _Presentable _had a different meaning for them than for the daimyo and his nobles.

His eyes were starting to slip closed when Izuna started brushing, and he had to keep himself from nodding off as his little brother pulled the strands together into a thick, heavy plait and pinned it up to the back of his head, securing it with another one of those clips with the Uchiha fan.

“There,” Izuna said, sounding satisfied. “_Now_ you look decent enough to meet the daimyo.”

Madara’s neck felt cold without the shield of his hair to guard it, but he nodded, standing. He picked up one of the discarded towels and finished scrubbing his skin, moving quickly because the chill was _really_ starting to get to him. Once he was dressed, and Izuna was as well, he tipped his head up to squint at the sun through the uncovered ranma above the wall.

“We still have some time,” he said. “Come here, Izuna.”

“I don’t—” Izuna started, and sighed when Madara beckoned. He turned around obediently.

Loosening the habitual ponytail, Madara carded through heavy, rough strands. There wasn’t nearly as much debris as there had been in his own hair – maybe tying it _did_ have benefits – but there was some, nonetheless, so he picked them out. Most of the water was gone, but there was still enough at the bottom of the jug for Madara to pour it out into a new towel and rub the cloth over Izuna’s hair.

Once that was done, he tossed it over his shoulder and sank his fingers past the strands and started massaging the scalp. Izuna tilted his head back with a sigh, and Madara’s lips crooked up into a smile as he pressed against the tension spots he could feel. After a few minutes, he slid his thumbs past the temples to the back of the ears, pressing hard until Izuna let loose an explosive sigh.

Then he brushed the few knots and tangles out, tied the ponytail high up Izuna’s head, and secured it with a clip identical to his own.

“Dammit, Nii-san,” Izuna slurred. “Now I want to sleep.”

Madara smacked him on the shoulder. “We have less than half an hour to get to the palace,” he said, lips twitching. “Get a move on.”

Izuna yawned, opening his mouth deliberately wide so Madara had a full and unwanted view of his molars. “Sure, Nii-san.”

Rolling his eyes, Madara grabbed the discarded towels and tossed them into the empty jar. Their dirty clothes he left on the floor to be dealt with later. “Move before I carry you,” he threatened. “You don’t want to look like a sack of rice in front of your paramour, do you?”

“She’s not my—” Izuna huffed, tugging at the sleeves of his heavy silk haori. “You’re the _worst_, Nii-san.”

“There, there,” Madara mocked, stepping out of the room.

He wasn’t surprised that both women were already ready, or that Hashirama’s wife was dressed in a hikizuri, the trailing skirts shimmering with silver thread embroidering the plum blossoms dyed into the silk. She had the straw hat on again, the hem of the veil blending in with the black base of the kimono.

Then he blinked, because Senju Touka was dressed, of all things, in a kuro montsuki, the crests of the Senju standing out in white right beneath her black-clad shoulders and the white, fluffy haori himo sitting above her hips. Kohl lined her dark eyes, red painted her lips, but her hair was tied up in a topknot in exactly the same style as Izuna’s. The overall image was… very odd.

He turned to Izuna, hoping his brother would help him find words…

Only to find Izuna gaping at Senju Touka with an expression that made Madara want to smack his own head against the wall. There would be no help there.

“Noble clan though the Senju are not,” Hashirama’s wife murmured with dulcet tones, “it will be a shame for the crest to not be represented during our meeting with the daimyo.” She parted her hat’s veil with a pale hand, smiling at him out of the corner of her mouth. “Unfair, too, with the Uchiha crest so marvellously represented.”

Madara stared.

“I’ve called palanquins for all of us as well,” she continued. “You’re not opposed to that, are you, Uchiha-sama?”

The Uchiha had never ridden to the palace in palanquins; they had always walked. They were shinobi; palanquins were far too slow for them. In fact, Madara realised, they would be _late_ for the meeting if they—

He understood, now, what this woman was doing. 

“No,” he said, a sharp grin taking over his own lips. “I don’t mind.”

“Good,” she said, and held out a hand. Madara stepped forward and let her put it on his elbow. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Izuna shaking himself out of his stupor and coming to stand beside him, while Senju Touka moved to Mito’s other side.

“You summon foxes, don’t you?” Madara asked conversationally, watching the pair of palanquins coming down to the road towards them.

“That I do, Uchiha-sama,” she said, straw hat bobbing slightly.

“They suit you,” he said.

Behind her veil, Mito laughed, a quiet titter that, Madara suspected, that lured many, many people to think that her to be harmless. “This unworthy woman does not deserve such high praise from Uchiha-sama,” she said.

Madara snorted. “Tell me, _Mito-sama_,” he drawled, and relished in the way her head jerked in his direction, “how does Hashirama keep a woman like you?”

The palanquins arrived just then, the workmen – four each – setting them down. Madara walked forward, pulling open the curtain, and held out his hand for Mito to steady herself to step inside. Her veil parted for the briefest second as she settled in, letting Madara catch sight of her wide smile. 

A little away from them, Senju Touka held the curtain open for Izuna, body bent into a deep bow entirely unsuitable for both her position and her sex. Izuna nearly tripped over himself as he scurried inside, and Madara hoped that his little brother would keep _some _dignity during the ride over there. Or, at the very least, not appear red-faced in front of the daimyo.

Once he was seated, Mito took off the hat. Her brown eyes met his dead-on, the first time since they had met all those weeks back at the Akimichi’s, as she leaned forward, pushing herself into his space.

“My husband is a dreamer,” she said, “and an honest man.”

“So you will be a youkai for his sake?” Madara arched a brow.

“For his sake?” she laughed. “You’re mistaken, Uchiha-sama.” She folded her hands on her lap, deceptively demure. “I am what I am, and I have the fortune of a marriage where that is a boon instead of a curse.”

Madara frowned. Curse the Senju and their inability to speak directly about anything.

Before he could complain, however, Mito said, “Uchiha-sama, I ask a favour of you.”

“What is it?”

“Will Uchiha-sama follow this unworthy woman’s lead in front of the daimyo?” she lowered her head, but met his gaze through her lashes. 

Madara looked at her. He thought of the palanquin they were sitting in, rocked gently by the slow steps of the workmen. He thought of Senju Touka, decked out in the crest of the clan she was heir to, but who refused, like so many female heirs, to disavow her femininity to fit within the values of a noble court. He thought of how she made every _Uchiha-sama_ sound as if she was doing _him_ a favour by granting him the honorific.

He looked at this woman, sly as a vixen and as deadly as any of those from legends, and knew that whatever weapons she could pull from the pins in her intricate braids – yes, Izuna, he figured it out; he wasn’t an idiot – couldn’t be as deadly as that which she could forge out of soft silks and decorous words. 

_Why should I send anyone else?_

“No ‘unworthy woman’ would ask such a thing,” Madara said, leaning back against the wood of the palanquin. “And if I refuse, you will force me to do it anyway.”

Her lips curved up slightly at the corners. “Uchiha-sama is wise indeed,” she murmured. 

Madara rolled his eyes. “If anything,” he drawled, “_you_ are doing me a favour.” 

He knew what he was doing; knew that his words would be something that might tilt the precarious balance of power between their clans, but he had never been one to deny truths that were right in front of his eyes. Especially when they had been so painstakingly placed.

She straightened and met his eyes again. “Hashirama is right: you _are_ an honest man.” Her smile widened. “I’m glad.” 

Snorting, Madara reached out and pulled part of the curtain back. The walls of the daimyo’s palace met his eyes.

“We’re here,” he said. 

_You might want to relax when you’re at the capital, Madara_, Hashirama had said. Perhaps, Madara thought, he just might.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have come to the (slightly belated) conclusion that this fic is extremely Japanese/East Asian in its form, meaning that it meanders instead of following the Aristotelian rising action-climax-falling action structure. There will be moments of excitement and action, but scenes don’t _lead_ to a climax. If you’ve ever read a translation of a Japanese/Chinese/Korean novel, you will know exactly what I’m talking about. 
> 
> I’m really hoping that I’m not boring you, and thank you all for your patience.
> 
> Also, for everyone who commented, thank you so much and I love all of you. ;~;!!


	7. rot in the foundation stones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: First scene: a panic attack in the second half.
> 
> Second scene: deliberate and explicit humiliation involving dehumanisation, explicit approval of infanticide, and people who are not Madara dub-conning Tobirama into having sex with Madara. There are also _explicit_ descriptions of child abuse and marital rape from a very young and very traumatised child’s POV. The hints of horrors in the past few chapters become overt here.

“We do not like the idea,” the daimyo declared.

Not for the first time since the start of the meeting, Madara wished that the man would actually face them instead of hiding behind his beaded curtain. Stifling the urge to scowl, he darted his eyes towards Mito. Her gaze remained fixed onto the floor.

Madara bent his head accordingly, bringing his face closer to the palms he had flattened on the tatami of the daimyo’s receiving room. “Your Lordship, a village that—”

“Yes, yes.” Beads clacked together as the daimyo waved a hand. “You have spoken to Us plenty about your desires. However, to build a shinobi village will break many shinobi from the long-held tradition of their clans. As your gentle Lord, how can We allow for such a thing?”

Behind Madara, Izuna’s chakra spiked with mirth and irritation at equal measure. Madara, already fighting hard to not roll his eyes, had to agree: of _all_ the things the daimyo could use, he would choose _tradition_?

Then again, he couldn’t admit overtly to his fear. The prolonged wars between the shinobi clans had ensured that the daimyo’s authority over them, because infighting meant that they wouldn’t gather to overthrow _him_. Not that the shinobi would ever try – they were tools and weapons, barely capable of interacting with civilians outside of their own clans without scaring the wits out of them by breathing; how could they even _think_ of ruling over them?

(They could use that power, that fear, to try. But Madara knew, as every clan head knew, that such tyranny could only last so long before people revolted. Especially people to whom they were dependent on for basic necessities like food and clothes, because no shinobi clan was _entirely_ self-sufficient. Including the Senju and the Akimichi.

Not to mention that the number of shinobi had never come close to a tenth of that of civilians, and developed chakra coils had never guaranteed immortality in any form.)

He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Senju Touka’s voice rang out, “Pardon me, Your Lordship, but this lowly servant would like to suggest that it is not a break in tradition.”

Even through the curtain, Madara could see the daimyo rearing backwards. “Explain to Us, heir of Senju,” he demanded, voice tremulous.

Madara bent his head lower to hide his smile – Senju Touka’s outfit was startling enough to him that he knew it had rattled the daimyo and the nobles surrounding him immensely. And the woman had kept silent throughout the meeting, assuring everyone about her role as a decorative prop… and now she spoke. In defence of _tradition_, which her very appearance had already rejected.

How much, Madara wondered, had Mito already predicted this meeting?

“The shinobi of the Land of Fire have always been loyal to Your Lordship,” Senju Touka said, not even bothering to disguise her femininity with the form of keigo she used. “In the centuries since the formation of shinobi clans, we have fought for you against the other Elementary Countries and threats from over the great oceans.”

“Yes— yes, of course,” the daimyo stuttered. “We do not doubt the loyalty of Our shinobi.” He would not _dare_, Madara thought.

“A village will allow us shinobi to serve you better, Your Lordship,” Senju Touka continued. “No longer will you need to judge which clan has the capabilities to perform the tasks you require. No longer will you have to fret over which clan’s loyalty is true, or false, or which deserves your favour more.” Her head lowered theatrically until it touched the tatami. 

“Your Lordship, will you not grant us the honour of easing your burdens? Will you not allow the shinobi to sharpen ourselves to be better tools for you to wield, as we have been for centuries?”

Ah. This script was starting to sound familiar. It had been used against him before.

“The Uchiha carries fire in our blood,” Madara declared, making sure that his voice echoed loud in the room. “We carry the name of the Land of Fire in our very veins, and with it runs our sworn loyalty to the land’s chosen Lord.”

“We Senju are of earth.” Senju Touka picked up the thread easily. “Our roots bring us nourishment from the land, and to the land and its Lord we are grateful. If a single drop of blood remains in a single Senju’s veins, we will repay the life we owe.”

Silence. Madara kept his head down.

“Leave us,” the daimyo said finally, “We will inform you when a decision is made.”

Eyebrow twitching, Madara touched his forehead once more to the floor. “We patiently wait to received our Lord’s wisdom,” he said.

Beads clacked as a waving hand appeared from behind the curtain. Madara nodded, rocking back on his heels. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the others standing as well. The four of them bowed as one – a final show of solidarity – before they walked backwards until they were out of the room.

The door clacked shut behind them. Madara let out a breath, and carefully didn’t sag against his little brother as Izuna came to stand beside him. 

Fuck, he _hated _politics, and this was far, far worse than the meeting at the Akimichi’s had been. At least there he was talking to shinobi, to _Hashirama_, and all of them spoke the same language and understood that power laid with those with the greatest capacity to kill and destroy. Having to reduce himself to scraping and bowing, to speaking keigo, to a man he could easily snap the neck of in a _second_…

Izuna’s hand on his arm grounded him. Madara hissed out another exhale, and tipped his chin back down as they walked towards the palace’s entrance. Just a few more minutes, he told himself. Just until they were back to that horrible ramshackle place, then he could add a few more cracks to the stone walls with his fists.

Still, none of it had been a waste: the daimyo might have refused to tell them his decision right now, and would likely make them wait a week or even longer before he told them, but Madara knew that he had been driven to a corner. The Uchiha and the Senju were the two clans within the country with the most firepower, and add to that the Akimichi, Nara, and Yamanaka’s support of the village… If the daimyo refused without a good reason, he would be courting rebellion, and he knew it.

Speaking of the Akimichi, Madara had to admit, reluctantly, that maybe there were merits to Hashirama’s easy agreement with Chouto to have only the Uchiha and the Senju speak to the daimyo. He wasn’t sure if the ploy they had just pulled would’ve worked if Chouto was present; if they had to take into account the man’s personality and high rank within the court.

“Uchiha-sama! Senju-sama!”

Madara was tempted to keep walking. He forced himself to stop instead, but didn’t turn his back because the running footsteps were definitely those of a servant’s. Or, well, one of the lower nobles, which amounted to much the same thing here in the capital.

“Yes?” Senju Touka asked, coming to stand on his other side.

The man ran past them and then whirled back, bowing in a swift motion. “Please excuse my terrible rudeness in besmirching your names with my rough tongue, Uchiha-sama, Senju-sama,” he said.

Making an impatient noise, Madara waved a hand. “What is it?”

When the man lifted his head, Madara blinked. He was… young, in ways that figures in the capital that they had met weren’t. Around Madara’s own age, or maybe Izuna’s.

Civilians of this age were nothing more than errand boys when shinobi were already blooded warriors. Madara could barely stop his lips from curling up. In envy or in disdain, he wasn’t quite sure.

“This lowly one reports that His Majestic Lordship, the Great Protector of Fire, invites Uchiha-sama, Senju-sama, Uchiha-sama, and Uzumaki-hime-sama,” hah, so Mito did _not_ go by Hashirama’s surname even in this capital; curious, “to make use of one of the palace’s guesthouses.”

Madara blinked. 

Beside him, Izuna said, voice deceptively level, “Shinobi have always been housed within the shinobi guest quarters in the capital.” 

“Yes, Uchiha-sama,” the boy bowed again. “However, given Uzumaki-hime-sama’s presence…” His eyes widened, and he bowed again, so low that his head nearly smacked into his own calves. “Forgive this lowly one for his careless words!”

_Ah_.

“We had wondered if it was a mistake,” Izuna drawled. “Surely a princess of Uzushio, an independent country of its own, should not live with lowly shinobi beholden to our great daimyo.” 

“Ah, that is—” the boy stuttered.

“Lead the way,” Madara interrupted him, sick already of the profuse apologies that were certainly not his to give.

“Yes, Uchiha-sama,” the boy said. “This lowly one will move your belongings—” 

“There is no need.” Mito had barely spoken during the entire meeting. Now, her eyes were bright with mirth above her black, phoenix-patterned fan. “We are shinobi; we bring nothing that we cannot carry on our own bodies.”

That was a blatant _lie_, Madara thought, amused despite himself. At the very least, he and Izuna would have to pick up their clothes – they were embroidered with the Uchiha crest, and thus had to be burnt if they weren’t going to wear them again.

Then again, they could make their way there and back even before this servant boy set out, and leaving the jars behind with the implication that they had _carried_ them all the way here from their compounds…

Heh.

“Mito is right,” Madara said, letting a hint of his teeth show in his smile. “There is no need to trouble yourselves on the behalf of mere shinobi.”

Izuna’s chakra spiked with so much mirth that it was nearly enough to make _Madara_ start laughing. He forcefully stifled the urge to elbow his little brother in the ribs; now was _not_ the time.

“Of— of course,” the boy bowed again. Was he going to do that every time one of them said something? “Thank you for your— your consideration, Uzumaki-hime-sama, Uchiha-sama.” 

In response, Madara raised his arm an inch. Beside him, Izuna cocked an eyebrow. 

The boy nearly tripped over himself. “This— this way,” he said, waving them towards the east. Madara could swear that he heard another one of those titters coming from Mito’s direction.

As they walked in silence, Madara looked around. A glint of silver at the corner of his eyes; he turned his head, and blinked when he recognised a standing pipe and pump in the garden. It would be identical to the one in the ‘shinobi guest quarters’ if not for the fact that it was in a much better condition, and the handle was engraved with some ornate design that he couldn’t discern without the Sharingan.

Which reminded him… Madara reached deeper into himself and drew out a small thread of chakra from where he had mostly suppressed it. He sent it down to his feet before urging it to spread out and downwards.

Stone from the pillars and main walls like dead spots to his senses. Wood and woven tatami for the floors, paper for the walls and doors separating one room from another; all perfectly normal. Madara lidded his eyes, focusing… Ah ha, _there_.

Metal underground. So much of it, stretching out from the palace towards the city, all of it heading towards the Kamo River that ran through the middle and around where the city had been built when it had first sprung up. They seemed to be built in _grids_, squares like the paper-covered lattices of shogi screens, except much larger—

What the fuck was _that_?

Not copper, but _steel_. A whole armoury full of it. Madara sank his chakra downwards, trying to find out just how big the armoury was, and—

There was something there. Something— like a tree, except _not_, because trees couldn’t grow in the middle of a stone floor at least three storeys below the daimyo’s receiving room that they had just left. It wasn’t a tree but it felt like one of those shadows on the forest floor, where the canopies overhead had shaded so much that it always remained cold—

No, no that wasn’t it, either. It was— strange, alien, _wrong_—and it vanished suddenly, like it was one of those things Mito had pulled from her hairpins. But he could still feel remnants of it right at the edges of his senses. Madara tried to chase it, spreading his senses out further, sending it downwards right below the room—

Chakra spiked to his right, like a cupful of water splashed right on his face. Madara pulled his mind back to focus again on his eyes and ears.

“—anything you need, do not hesitate to call us,” the boy was saying. “Dinner will be brought from the palace’s kitchens.”

“We thank the daimyo for his hospitality,” Madara’s mouth moved through the words. 

The boy bowed again before he left. Madara waited until his footsteps had faded away before he kicked off his shoes, practically running inside the house. He stood in the middle with his senses spread out – there was only the boy around. Good.

“Did you feel that?” Eyes snapping back open, he whirled upon the women.

Senju Touka didn’t say a word, merely pointing beside her while looking away. In response, Mito lifted her fan higher until her entire face was covered. What—

“Nii-san,” Izuna hissed from beside him. “Your _eyes_.”

Belatedly, Madara realised that everything was washed with red; that he wasn’t looking at Senju Touka or Mito or even Izuna exactly, but at their chakra coils. He forcefully deactivated the Sharingan. “Apologies,” he grunted. “But—”

“The daimyo keeps an armoury below his receiving room,” Mito said, fan closing with a sharp _click_ and gaze sharp on Madara. “Is that such a surprise—”

“Not that,” he waved a hand. “That _thing_.”

For the first time since they had met, Mito looked genuinely confused. “That… thing?” she asked.

“It was right in the middle of the armoury,” Madara said, nearly growling. He could still feel the chakra, cold-alien-_wrong_ and scraping raw over his nerves, and it made him shiver. “I can’t describe it. Tell me if you felt it.”

“Uh,” Izuna said, “Nii-san, you know that it’s _illegal_ to—”

Madara waved a hand. “Tobirama was right,” he explained shortly. “Mito, you knew there was an armoury, and I could tell that you realised that I was sensing,” that had been _her _chakra that had spiked to warn him, after all, “which means that you’re a sensor, too—”

She was shaking her head. “I didn’t feel anything like that,” she said. “I only started infusing chakra when I realised what you were doing.” She paused, a hint of a smile on her lips. “Aren’t we supposed to be law-abiding, loyal shinobi, Uchiha-sama?”

“That doesn’t _matter_,” Madara barely stopped himself from shouting. “Listen, you don’t know what I felt—”

“Is it still there?” Senju Touka interrupted.

Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Madara threw out his senses again, focusing entirely on finding that particular chakra again. When he couldn’t find it anywhere near the palace, he stretched out even further, towards the residences of the nobles closest to the daimyo. Nothing. Further, _further_, towards the river, and he had to make sure he looked underground as well because obviously the people here built down as well as up, and it was—

Right at the edge of the river. Madara threw his chakra into the Kamo’s, reaching out for that shifting, writhing darkness. He had to find it, needed to catch it, needed to—

“—san, Nii-san!” Izuna’s hands on his shoulders, shaking him. “Nii-san, pull back, pull _back_!”

It slipped from his senses, and Madara was left with nothing but water and fish and the vague sense of exhaustion tugging at him for trying to sense so far. But that couldn’t be, it didn’t make sense, because only summons could disappear like that and it had felt _nothing_ like a summon, cold in a way not even the snakes of the reclusive Yashagoro clan that Madara had once met could be. Even those snakes with their eyes of silver and gold had belonged to this earth, their shimmering scales encrusted with bits of soil, but this thing, it—

Felt _wrong_. Malevolent like a youkai of legend because he had felt it, brushed right against it with his senses and now he had to find it again, he _had_ to find it and _go to it_—

A fist slammed into his sternum. Madara choked on his own tongue, hands grabbing at Izuna to hold himself up. He forced his eyes open.

Senju Touka stared back at him, skin washed in red. She met the Sharingan unflinchingly until Madara turned it off. He took a shuddering breath.

“It’s gone,” he whispered. “It was in the river and I almost had it, and then it just… It _vanished_.” 

Arms wrapped around his shoulders, holding him up. Madara’s hands clenched weakly at his brother’s sleeves, crumpling silk.

“Nii-san,” Izuna whispered. Madara squeezed his eyes shut.

His heart was pounding, he realised. He was _terrified_ in ways that he hadn’t been since he was a child. Not only because of how _strange-alien-wrong_ the chakra had felt, but also—

Even now, he felt the ache to reach for it. Like it was a furutsubaki-no-rei, its leaves vibrantly green even as its wealth of red petals fell in an instant to the snow-covered ground, a splash of colour amidst blinding white, searing and tempting him to pick one up just to _feel_…

Another breath. His lungs felt like they were seizing. His blood rushed so fast through his veins that he felt like he was burning up.

“Nothing,” he rasped out. “It’s not there anymore.”

Izuna’s hand had slipped under Madara’s hair, fingertips kneading at the nape of his neck. Barely enough to keep him here, in this room, instead of seeking that chakra out again. Madara squeezed his brother’s arm in silent thanks.

Rustle of cloth. Pale skin and blood-red braids falling over black cloth. “Uchiha-sama,” Mito said. “What made you start sensing in the first place?” 

Madara let his eyes fall shut again. “Trying to figure out their irrigation system,” he answered. “If there’s a village, it must be one that people would want to live in. And And having homes with easy access to water is one part of it.”

Tobirama. His chakra like cool water, lapping at Madara’s nerves. Like taking a dip in a spring after an exhausting day. Like rain after a long dry season. Like the sound of the Naka River, heralding him home after a long mission.

Even before he knew it, his breathing eased. Madara shifted his feet, settling his weight underneath him, before he dipped his head.

“My apologies for my loss of composure,” he murmured. “I won’t happen again.”

Mito’s eyes narrowed. “It shouldn’t be here,” she said. It shouldn’t be anywhere at all, Madara thought wildly. It shouldn’t even _exist_. “I’ll keep my senses open, Uchiha-sama.”

Madara blinked. She could have easily dismissed his fears as mere imagination, but here she was, not only taking it seriously, but implicating herself in his crimes by promising to not report him for breaking the law _and_ doing the same.

“Why?”

“If there’s a village,” Mito said, her eyes piercingly sharp on him, “it must be safe. For everyone.” Then, before he could reply, she turned away from him.

“Will you remove these layers for me, Touka?” 

Senju Touka didn’t reply for long moments, watching Madara with narrowed eyes. Then she nodded, elbow jutting out as she offered her arm to Mito without saying a word. Mito’s sleeve brushed over Madara’s arm as she swept past him deeper into the guesthouse.

The moment they were some distance away, Madara cupped Izuna’s face with both hands. “Be careful,” he said, staring into his brother’s eyes. “Take _all_ precautions while you’re here, Izuna. I don’t know what that thing is, and I don’t,” he swallowed, “I don’t know what it’d do to you.”

If Izuna hadn’t been here, Madara would’ve reached for that chakra. He would’ve left the guesthouse and the palace to follow it, using shunshin and everything else he had in his power, uncaring that it was illegal to be seen using chakra in the capital. If Izuna hadn’t been here, he would’ve…

What would that thing to do Izuna? What _couldn’t_ it do to Izuna? 

His brother was obviously confused, but he nodded again, hands coming up to clasp Madara’s. “I will, Nii-san,” he said. “I’ll be careful.”

“Promise me,” Madara insisted.

After an agonising moment of silence, Izuna nodded. His eyes flashed red, and Madara activated his own Sharingan. 

“I promise,” Izuna said.

Letting out a long sigh, Madara leaned forward to touch his forehead to his brother’s. “Good,” he whispered. “Good.”

“You have to reach deep into yourself, Maru,” Tobirama encouraged. “The chakra _is_ within you; you just have to coax it to come out so you can use it.”

“But it’s _so hard_, besshitsu-san,” Maru whined.

“It is at the start,” Tobirama nodded. “But once you get the hang of it, it’ll soon come as easily as breathing.” When Maru’s chakra – the very chakra he kept insisting didn’t exist because he could neither find or feel it – spiked with frustration, Tobirama dropped a hand on top of his head.

“Look,” he said, drawing Maru’s attention back to his hand. He drew chakra out to his fingertips, letting it glow dimly before shifting it into a tiny bundle of lightning. Maru gasped and nearly lunged at him, and it was only Tobirama’s hand on his shoulder that kept him from electrocuting himself.

“That’s so _cool_,” Maru breathed, eyes wide. “Will I be able to do that, besshitsu-san?”

Chakra manipulation like this was far ahead of what Maru was currently capable of, Tobirama thought. “Eventually,” he said. “You’ll need to draw out your chakra first, Maru. Have some patience with yourself.”

“But _Kagami_ can already do it,” Maru said, bottom lip now sticking out.

Following the boy’s gaze, Tobirama looked at Kagami, sitting underneath several strings of drying laundry as he went through the hand seals of the simplest fire jutsu that Tobirama knew. Tobirama had shown it to him once, then corrected his hands when he went through it the first time, and now Kagami made not a single mistake in the sequence. All that was left was for him to feed chakra into the seals, and he would be able to do his very first jutsu.

Tobirama had learned his first water jutsu at around the same time he learned to speak; before he was even two years old. So, it was difficult for him to teach these two boys how to mould chakra, because it had become so natural and instinctive to him that it was akin to a fish trying to instruct its guppy how to breathe in water.

Fortunately, Kagami and Maru weren’t the first children he’d had to teach. And though they were both already past their sixth birthday, considered old to start moulding chakra by the standards of most shinobi clans, Tobirama didn’t think their age would be a reason for either of them to fail. 

Maru would just have to work harder, that was all. 

“Maybe I’m just not suited for this,” Maru said, shoulders sagging.

“Do not be discouraged,” Tobirama said, rubbing his hand over the boy’s hair again. “Just because someone else seems to have greater ability does not mean that you have none, Maru. Or are you afraid of hard work?”

Lips pressing into a line, Maru shook his head hard. “Never,” he swore. Then he squeezed his eyes shut and went back to trying to meditate. Tobirama brushed his fingers back against the ground to note his fluctuating chakra levels before he nodded, rocking back on his heels to stand.

“Uh, besshitsu-san…?” Komaki called, twisting her fingers together and then apart, again and again.

Looking at her, Tobirama nodded. Relief took hold of her body, straightening her shoulders as she took a step back. 

“How interesting,” an unfamiliar voice said as a strange body took her place.

Tobirama had noticed the presence, of course – he was a _sensor_ – but he had pretended ignorance because the man hadn’t seemed like he wanted to introduce himself. Now, watching Komaki as she bit her lip and walked backwards away from the two of them, he wondered if he should have confronted him earlier. And possibly chased him away from Mikami’s house.

Said man was now waiting for him to speak. Tobirama didn’t oblige, instead standing there in silence.

“As you can see, Elder Hiuchi,” Mikami’s voice rang out from inside the building, “besshitsu-san is simply helping us with our chores. Like we told you.”

Giving her a nod in both acknowledgment and thanks – she had given him the man’s name so Tobirama didn’t have to ask – Tobirama folded his hands inside his sleeves and bowed. “Honoured elder,” he murmured. “Forgive this lowly concubine’s manners for not having greeted you the moment you entered.”

Hiuchi hummed under his breath. “May I ask what are you doing, besshitsu-san?” His still-calm voice did not match the roiling storm of his chakra. Within himself, Tobirama surrounded himself with a thin wall of water to dull his senses so he would not be overwhelmed.

He hadn’t needed to do that since he had first arrived two weeks ago.

“Teaching Kagami and Maru to mould chakra, honoured elder,” he answered once he could feel his own emotions again.

“Why?”

Behind him, Kagami and Maru had stopped their practices. Tobirama turned his body slightly so it blocked the sight of them from Hiuchi’s gaze. Smart boys that they were, they immediately stood and headed for their mothers. Kagami even remembered to bow to Hiuchi as he passed him.

“The boys have expressed a wish to help their mothers and Suriko-san with their chores,” Tobirama said, keeping his voice even. “The winter rains make drying clothes difficult, honoured elder; a small katon jutsu would turn days of uncertainty and the possibility of mildew into nothing.”

“I see,” Hiuchi said. “But surely you could have lit them the fires?”

Tobirama lowered his head further, carefully keeping his eyes to the ground. If the Uchiha elders were anything like the Senju’s, they were shinobi who had managed to live to an old age. So, if Hiuchi didn’t have the Sharingan, if he wasn’t willing to use it right here and now… Well, that would be fortunate. But Tobirama had never been a shinobi willing to trust in fortune.

“This lowly concubine’s water affinity runs too deeply to allow him to light more than a small candle flame, honoured elder,” he said. “And lightning burns and wrinkles clothes, rather than dry them.”

Hiuchi hummed again. “These boys are civilian-born,” he said. 

“Yes,” Tobirama nodded. “But no law states that only children of blacksmiths can become blacksmiths.”

“I’m afraid I do not get your meaning.” Tobirama had an inkling that Hiuchi was _smiling_ at him. A wasted effort, really. “Just as all humans have working hands at birth, chakra exists in all living creatures, honoured elder.” Then he added, “As this lowly concubine is sure you know.”

“Chakra manipulation is very different from blacksmithing,” Hiuchi said, the roiling storm in his blood roaring even louder to Tobirama’s senses. Tobirama thickened the walls in his mind.

“You are right, honoured elder. However, though blacksmiths who were children of the trade tend to be more talented than those who were not,” mostly because they had been raised in that environment, and started their training far earlier than those who became apprentices as children, “both blacksmithing and chakra manipulation are skills that can be taught and trained.”

“Do you mean for them to become shinobi?” How much effort, Tobirama wondered, was Hiuchi making to ensure that his voice remained so calm? 

“That is beyond a lowly concubine’s place to decide, honoured elder,” Tobirama said. “But he is confused, nonetheless; does a shinobi not need more skills beyond that of chakra manipulation, and more jutsus than the most basic of katons?”

“Be as that may,” Hiuchi said, “is it not an insult to the gift of the Sage for chakra to be used for mere chores?”

“The will of the great Sage of Six Paths is beyond this lowly concubine’s understanding,” Tobirama returned. “But he knows that his lord, Madara-sama, tends to the hearth fires of many homes. If his lord uses chakra for chores, then how can this lowly concubine do otherwise?”

Mikami’s presence suddenly burnt bright at the edge of Tobirama’s senses as her chakra spiked with mirth. Tobirama stifled his own smile.

“This lowly concubine’s knowledge might, of course, be flawed,” he added. “He defers to the honoured elder’s judgment.”

“Hn,” Hiuchi said. “Very well.” Then, before Tobirama could straighten from his half-bow, he continued, “Come now, besshitsu-san. There are others who would like to speak to you.”

“Madara-sama isn’t here,” Mikami spoke up before Tobirama could even take a single step. “What need have you of the clan head’s concubine, Elder Hiuchi, when the clan head himself is absent?”

“There is plenty,” Hiuchi replied, each word sharp as a whip, “that is beyond a mere washerwoman’s ken.”

Mikami made to protest further – Tobirama could feel it in her chakra that she truly _detested_ Hiuchi – but Tobirama caught her attention with a small wave of a hand. He shook his head; he would not have her get into any kind of trouble for his sake.

As he followed Hiuchi out of the garden, he could hear Kagami whispering, far too loudly: “Mama, is besshitsu-san going to get into trouble because of me and Maru?” Luckily, Mikami shushed him instead of answering when they were still within the elder’s earshot.

Though Tobirama could already predict that Mikami would head straight for Tsurugi the moment she could. He could only hope that Tsurugi – or his wife Shiomi – would be able to find some way to placate her. No, _all_ of them, Tobirama corrected himself; it wasn’t Mikami’s chakra that bubbled with worry, but Komaki’s and Suriko’s as well. 

He took care to not let the rush of warmth filling him to show on his face or body. Mikami likely wouldn’t be able to do anything, but the fact that she would try, that she was willing to risk the wrath of her own clan’s elders to try… 

He hadn’t done anything to deserve such protectiveness.

Perhaps it was because they were civilians; they had never seen him on the battlefield, and had only heard of the ‘Senju White Demon’ from tales brought back by the shinobi members of the clan. The very same members, Tobirama knew, who avoided him and, as he walked down the streets of the compound three precise steps behind Hiuchi, looked away and refused to meet his eyes. Tobirama dipped his head down.

Hiuchi brought him to the administrative heart of the Uchiha, a series of buildings situated in the centre of the compound. Though there were a few living quarters, no one stayed here – Madara’s house, the clan head’s residence, was a hundred or so metres to the east – because it served mostly as a gathering place. The Uchiha’s shrine to the three great deities of the heavens – Amaterasu-oumikami, Susano’o-no-mikoto, and Tsukiyomi-no-mikoto – with its chakra lamps and eternally-burning fires glowed to Tobirama’s senses right beside it. 

Tobirama strengthened his shields even further.

He kept his head down as he was led into the room situated right in the centre of the compound. Tobirama had only been here once before, when he was introduced to the clan as a whole: it was a huge place, meant to house the entire clan, and there was a small stage set up against the wall furthest from the great double doors. Two men were seated on the stage, and a cushion was set on the floor some meters away from it.

Ah, Tobirama thought. They meant to remind him of his place. Did they think that he had forgotten it? Did they think he _could_ have, given that – with Madara and Izuna gone – every Uchiha addressed him by his title of _concubine_?

Keeping his gaze to the floor, Tobirama walked to the cushion, and folded down into seiza on top of it. He took a deep breath before placing his hands, palms-down, on the ground. Then he lowered his head until the grains of the wooden floorboards were clear to his sight.

“This lowly concubine,” he said, “greets the honoured elders of his clan.”

“You found him easily, Hiuchi-sama,” one of the men on the stage said.

Hiuchi’s footsteps thudded dully as he moved away from Tobirama towards the other elders. “He keeps to a predictable schedule, Ryouun-sama, Choukai-sama,” he said. 

“It is kind of you to remind him of our names, Hiuchi-sama,” the man who had not spoken yet said. “Isn’t that right, Ryouun-sama?”

“Far more than he deserves,” the one who was obviously named Ryouun snorted.

Tobirama kept his body still. He was a symbol of subjugation, he reminded himself. He had agreed to this; had come up with the idea himself. This was for peace; this was so that no one would ever have to feel their brothers die like he had. It was so that Kagami and Maru could live in peace without worrying about food being taken away from them, so that Mikami and Suriko and Komaki wouldn’t have to push themselves and work harder to prove that they were worth the food that they were eating. It was for his older brother’s village.

So, this— this _humiliation_ shouldn’t matter. It was to be expected, after all; he was here as a symbol of subjugation, wasn’t he? He shouldn’t have gotten used to how the civilians of the clan had been treating him; should have known that the shinobi members deliberately ignoring him to be a kindness instead. One that he didn’t deserve with all that he had done so far. There was nothing he could do to let him deserve it, in fact, because he was here to be subjugated. 

These men were acting _correctly, _Tobirama thought. They were acting according to their stations, according to _Tobirama’s, _and that was… that was right.

They were still talking among themselves. He was… _grateful_, because it gave him time to gather himself. And he was. He _was_.

(He had to be.)

“Besshitsu-san,” Hiuchi said. “Raise your head. Let us look at you properly.”

Tobirama did. He fought to not flinch as the dark, corrosive chakra of the Sharingan ran over his body. 

“A pity about the colouring,” Ryouun murmured, barely loud enough to be heard. “He would be beautiful otherwise.”

“Nothing to be done about that,” Choukai sighed. “Though I am surprised: someone with red eyes and white hair like that… Surely the Senju would’ve drowned him at birth.”

Keeping his eyes open with an effort, Tobirama whirled the water of his mental shields even tighter around himself. This time, it wasn’t to numb his senses, but to prevent any surge of his own chakra from showing. He had to remain calm.

“That’d be such a boon for our clan,” Hiuchi laughed. “So many Uchiha shinobi would still be alive if the Senju had the guts to do that.”

The thoughts formed, nonetheless: _they tried. They didn’t succeed_. His affinity for water was far too strong. (Or did the drowning attempt strengthen it? He wasn’t sure, and there wasn’t any way for him to confirm either hypothesis.)

“You must be wondering why we have called you here, besshitsu-san,” Ryouun said. 

“This lowly concubine is grateful,” Tobirama barely managed to drag the formal words out of his throat, “that the honoured elders have decided to grace him with their time.” 

For some reason, Hiuchi’s chakra spiked with anger again. Tobirama wrapped the typhoon within tighter around himself. 

“We are concerned about Madara-sama,” Ryouun continued as if Tobirama hadn’t spoken a word. “He has never been… hmm, how do I put it?”

“May I be of aid?” Choukai asked. Ryouun waved a hand, and Choukai’s Sharingan fixed on Tobirama. 

“Madara-sama has never liked visits to the capital,” he said. “He comes home agitated, angry at times, and it has always been difficult to calm him down.” He sighed. “For days he will hole himself up, receiving only Izuna-sama for company, and we…”

“We worry for his health,” Ryouun picked up the thread. “Madara-sama is very precious to us, and we are fortunate that, no matter his wrath, he will not take his temper out on the clan.” He paused deliberately. “Do you understand my meaning, besshitsu-san?”

They clearly intended for him to be the instrument by which Madara could work off his anger. But _how_? Were they suggesting that he sparred with Madara? Or should he hand a whip to his _lord_ and urge Madara to beat him until all of the fury had been worked off?

Slowly, he shook his head.

Choukai laughed again. “Usually, Madara has… options he can choose from to work off his frustrations. But with you here, besshitsu-san, it will be difficult for him. He will not wish to offend our new… allies, after all.”

Oh.

Hiuchi sighed. “Please don’t mistake us, besshitsu-san. We are… appreciative,” the word dragged out so long that all sincerity within it was lost, “of all that you have done for our clan.”

“Grateful,” Ryuuon added, irony twisting his voice, “that you decided to use the mind we have feared for so long for our benefit.”

“But do not forget your station,” Hiuchi continued, “or the duties that you must perform. Besshitsu-san.”

It was not a spar or a beating that they wanted.

No, they wanted him to let Madara fuck him. To let Madara use his body as an outlet for his frustrations and anger about meeting the daimyo. To, most likely, let Madara _keep_ using his body that way, because now he couldn’t go to brothels or sleep with anyone else. Because the Senju had given Madara a body to fuck whenever he wished, and so would be insulted if he chose to go anywhere else.

“Do you understand now, besshitsu-san?”

Tobirama had been wrong.

It was not that these men wanted him to let Madara fuck him. He wasn’t merely a symbol of subjugation at all. How could he be a symbol when he was—

He was a _concubine_. Mito had tried to warn him: _A female concubine is taken to ensure that there will be enough children for the line to flourish. A male concubine can’t be useful that way, and so, your entire purpose is for sex._

This was his duty. This was his _definition_. Everything he had done so far was extraneous and of no use, because the only purpose he had here was to let Madara fuck him. Whenever Madara wanted. Whenever Madara needed. 

The clan called him _besshitsu_. They had been kind, Tobirama thought dully, for trying so hard to inform him about what he must do to earn his name.

His heart was pounding very loudly. 

Tobirama had barely passed his first birthday when Kawarama and Itama had been born, but he was already three years old by the time they had been weaned. That was plenty old enough to remember, and to understand.

(Hashirama had tried to protect him from it, had tried to usher him away whenever Father returned home angry after another lost battle or stalemate, but Kawarama had always been a curious child and Itama followed his minutes-older brother wherever he went, and, in the end, two pairs of hands had been needed.

Twenty fingers in all to cover their baby brothers’ ears. Two bodies to bend over Kawarama and Itama’s bodies. Two different chakras to cover them both. Kawarama and Itama were younger and needed more protection; Tobirama, as an elder brother, had given them what little he had.

And so, he had heard the rattling of the wall as Father took Mother against it. He had slaps of flesh on flesh hammering marks onto his ribs. He had felt Father’s _frustration-fury-I-should’ve-killed-more_ and Mother’s _terror-stop-please-let-it-be-over-soon-please-please-the-boys-don’t-let-them-hear-please _engraved into his bones.

Eventually, the sounds stopped, and Father would get dressed and head out of the house. After Kawarama and Itama had been shooed off into the backyard by Hashirama’s strained smile, Tobirama would drag his only elder brother to Mother’s room. 

There had always the smell of blood and semen, heavy and thick and _filthy_. Mother had tried to chase them away but Hashirama could heal her so she could walk, and Tobirama could summon water to help her clean up so she didn’t have to crawl to the basin, so they did it. 

Mother died days after giving birth to Tobirama’s stillborn, nameless youngest brother when he was five. Some of the clan whispered _grief_, others had murmured _illness_, and Father had snorted and muttered _weakness_.

Hashirama had planted Mother’s favourite doku zeriamong the seri in the garden, and had made up a story to scare Kawarama and Itama away from going near that section.)  
_  
_Tobirama closed his eyes. He touched his forehead to the wooden floor. It was cold.

“This lowly concubine understands.” His voice was very steady. “Honoured elders.”

Hiuchi’s chakra spiked with rage again, rising and rising, nearly enough to breach the whirling walls of his mental shields. But Tobirama was suffocating already, so he could barely feel it. He raised his head.

“May this concubine know when Madara-sama will be home, honoured elders?” He needed to… prepare himself.

“In another two weeks,” Ryuuon informed him.

“Thank you, honoured elder.” His lips and tongue seemed to move on automaton. “Will the honoured elders need anything else?”

“A white demon, indeed,” Hiuchi sneered. “I almost pity Madara-sama for having to bed one such as you.”

Tobirama did not speak. He could not: his mind was almost never empty, but now it was.

“Go,” Ryuuon said, waving a hand.

Another touch of his forehead to the floor, and Tobirama stood. He walked backwards out of the room. Once he was under the sky instead of ceiling, he stood there, staring emptily at the compound.

Where could he go, now? Where could he…

(_Anija_—

No. Mito had tried to warn him, and Tobirama hadn’t listened.

He had _asked_ for this.)

Overhead, thunder cracked. What should have been a sunlit day was suddenly dark with an approaching storm. He should go back to Mikami’s house and help them bring in the laundry. He should stretch his senses out to the river to check if the fishermen were there. He should head to the forges to help the blacksmiths with covering their chimneys. He should… should…

Rain crashed down, fat droplets immediately soaking into his clothes, chilling him to the bone.

He did not move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [furutsubaki-no-rei](http://yokai.com/furutsubakinorei/) is a camellia plant that has gained a spirit. A legend about it talks about how it turned a merchant into a bee, and lured him to smell the flowers. The fragrance of the flowers turned into poison, which then killed the bee/merchant. A particular camellia tree in Yamagata is also said to emit a high-pitched cry that is a harbinger for deaths and disasters. (Which is the reason why you should never give camellias to Japanese people as get-well-soon presents.) Given what Black Zetsu did to Madara in canon, the furutsubaki-no-rei seems a pretty appropriate comparison for him. (I know some fics compare him to a jubokku, but that one seems more like the God Tree/Gedo Mazo to me.)
> 
> Speaking of Zetsu, doku zeri is a horribly toxic plant that looks almost _exactly_ like seri, which is Japan’s version of parsley and is just as commonly planted and used. I’m taking a wild stab in the dark and saying that doku zeri/seri are exactly what inspired Kishimoto for Zetsu/White Zetsu/Black Zetsu. (No, Tobirama’s mother didn’t die from Zetsu. The placement of these two scenes in the same chapter wasn’t even entirely deliberate.)
> 
> Tobirama’s parents’ relationship, and his mother’s eventual fate, was partially inspired by [_Eyestealer_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18342065), one of my favourite Founders’ Era fics of all time.


	8. a concubine’s duty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings: **Dubiously-consented kissing with one of the participants not even understanding what attraction or arousal means. Inappropriate humour as well, because Tobirama is shit at this seduction business and Madara is increasingly bewildered.

After that first afternoon, Madara never felt that _strange-alien-wrong_ chakra again. Not when he tried looking. Not even when he mapped out the capital’s sewers and waterways. 

As they approached the Naka River, carrying the daimyo’s agreement to the village in triplicate for both clans, Madara might have to admit that Izuna had been right. He hated to give his little brother more ammunition against him, but he might have just imagined that dark chakra. A hallucination born from sleep deprivation because he had slept very little on the way to the capital, and slept badly the entire week before that. 

(Izuna had teased him about how it was Tobirama who was throwing his sleep schedule out of order, and not even in the expected ways at that. Madara had given him a friendly strangle in return.)

Still, he kept his senses stretched out as far as he could as they travelled, and knew from the feel of Mito’s chakra that she was doing the same. Hallucination or not, it didn’t hurt to be careful; the Uchiha and the Senju might have a peace treaty, and the Akimichi, Nara, and Yamanaka might have agreed to join their village once it was built, but there were far morethan five clans in the Land of Fire.

The sound of running water had barely reached his ears when he was practically assaulted by the feel of deep forests and sunlight. Madara stifled a groan.

“Hashirama’s waiting for us,” he announced. 

Senju Touka snorted, shaking her head even as she kicked off another branch. “I won’t be surprised that he’s been there since dawn,” she said.

Madara’s eyes flicked towards the sky; the sun was nearly its zenith, meaning that it was now past noon since it was winter. “Maybe you two should give him more to do so he won’t have time to waste like this,” he grumbled.

“Maybe I should give you more to do, Nii-san,” Izuna chirped from above them – the brat always liked high places. “That way, you won’t have time to stalk me whenever I leave the compound.”

When Senju Touka snorted, clearly amused, Madara rolled his eyes. “If I get more work, then so do you,” he said, pointed tone a reminder to Izuna to stop using him as a way to flirt with the woman he was currently infatuated with. 

“Nii-san!”

“Delegation, little brother, _delegation_. It’s inefficient if I’m the one with the majority of the work.” He grinned out of the corner of his mouth. 

He didn’t need to look to know that Izuna was going to retort. Before he could, however, Senju Touka asked, “Are the two of you _always_ like this?” 

“Like what?” Madara shot back.

“Needling each other all the time,” she said. 

“If I don’t do it, Nii-san will get a big head,” Izuna intoned. “And his hair takes up so much space already that he’ll run out of oxygen and suffocate if that happens.”

“You should smack your face against a tree, little brother,” Madara drawled. “That might deflate _your_ head a bit and let your one braincell work instead of rattling around hot air.”

“Have anyone told you two that you’re really annoying?” Senju Touka asked.

“All the time,” Izuna replied cheerfully. “Hikaku has taken to staring into space whenever we do it in front of him. He says that it’s the only way that he can keep sane when he’s forced to be around us.” After a moment, he laughed. “Don’t tell me that the Senju don’t believe in banter.”

“Tobirama has respect aplenty for his older brother,” Touka said. Madara blinked. What did that had anything to do with—

Whatever he was about to say was lost in a yelp as Mito suddenly rushed forward in a shunshin, leaving behind a breeze that whipped Madara’s hair straight into his mouth. He yanked the strands out immediately, heart picking up speed as he pushed his body to move faster. Was it a threat that Mito spotted? Why didn’t he ask her about the depth and breadth of her sensory abilities while they were in the capital—

“Wife!” 

Madara reached the riverbanks just in time to see Hashirama snatch Mito right out of the air. Mito’s legs wrapped around his waist in a move that spoke of practice. Then roots burst from the ground, reaching up to cradle their entwined bodies, and Hashirama was laughing breathlessly as he buried his hands into his wife’s hair. Her hat fell to the ground, completely ignored as Mito touched her forehead to her husband’s, sharp-dark eyes falling shut as she leaned her whole weight against him. 

Slowly, Hashirama’s mokuton lowered them both to the ground. He wasn’t even using hand seals, too busy embracing his wife and shoving his face into her hair. 

“And you think Nii-san and I are bad,” Izuna said side-long to Senju Touka. “They are in _public_.”

“It’s _Hashirama_,” she replied, shrug audible in her voice. Which, Madara thought, _did_ explain everything. 

The roots were falling away now, wilting as if decades had passed instead of seconds. Madara blinked.

Mito’s body fitted almost entirely within Hashirama’s arms, and her pale hand was entirely dwarfed by his knobbly, tanned one. Even with her legs wrapped around his waist, her head barely crested his; if they were both standing, she wouldn’t even reach his jaw. 

Granted, Hashirama was abnormally tall and broad, a veritable tree of a man, but Madara had spent almost three weeks with Mito, and he had never realised just how much smaller she was compared to him. Her presence had always made such things irrelevant.

“Madara!”

He barely had time to dodge Hashirama’s lunging embrace, stepping to the side and glaring as his friend nearly crashed into the nearby tree. He rolled his eyes. “I’d thought you’d know better than to try that,” he said.

“You’re _mean_, Madara,” Hashirama whined, but he was already looking for another target, darting to the side. Much to Madara’s surprise, Senju Touka didn’t move, and only rolled her eyes and sighed as Hashirama swept her up into a tight hug.

Izuna sidled close. “Teach me that trick, Nii-san,” he hissed. 

Side-eying his brother, Madara smirked. In a flash, he grabbed his brother by the collar. “Hashirama!” he called. “Izuna complains that he’s not being greeted properly by you!” 

“Nii-san, you absolute _bastard_—” Whatever else Izuna wanted to say was muffled as Hashirama ran over and flung his arms around him. As Madara watched, incredibly amused, Hashirama lifted Izuna off his feet, leaving his little brother kicking at dirt with the tips of his toes as he squeezed the breath out of him.

“He’s tough,” Madara advised helpfully. 

Grinning at him over Izuna’s shoulder, Hashirama squeezed harder. Izuna’s arms flapped uselessly at his side, squawking incoherently. Madara cackled.

Eventually, Hashirama let go. Madara shot his hand out, holding Izuna by the shoulder to steady him as his little brother gasped for breath like he had fallen into the river.

“Welcome home, Izuna,” Hashirama said, and _patted Izuna on the head_. He laughed and dodged the punch that Izuna threw at him, dancing backwards with the same agility that was missing when he nearly brained himself on a tree.

He was such a shit. It was long past time that people aside from Madara suffered from it. 

“Where’s your brother?” Madara asked once Izuna had stopped punching his arm was back to trying to look composed. Madara didn’t know why he even cared to try; Izuna had never owned anything close to dignity around him. “He’s supposed to be meeting us here, right?”

Immediately, Hashirama sobered, mirth fading away from his face as he frowned. “I don’t know,” he said.

Madara narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“I’ve been writing to Tobirama every day for the past three weeks,” Hashirama said. “I’ve been using one of my clansmen’s magpie summons – I _know _that Tobirama’s familiar with them because we’ve always used them whenever he’s in Uzushio – to send them over, and he’s been replying every three days or so. But I haven’t heard from him for a week.”

Throwing his senses westwards, Madara searched for Tobirama’s chakra. Ah, right there, in the Uchiha compound. In Madara’s house? He frowned upwards to the sky, checking the time again. That wasn’t right; sure, Tobirama would be finished with his morning chores by now, and he had received a letter from Tsurugi that the irrigation system had been completed, but Tobirama had a tendency to find ways to be useful around the compound. For him to be home when it wasn’t mealtime was…

Odd.

Or maybe it was a good thing. Maybe Tobirama was actually taking the suggestions for him to rest seriously.

“Have you been writing to anyone else in the Uchiha?” Izuna was asking.

“No,” Hashirama shook his head. When Madara raised an eyebrow, Hashirama sighed. “I know _four_ Uchihas by name at this point, and I’ve only ever talked to you, Madara. I don’t want to risk the peace treaty being doubted if I managed to offend one of your clansmen by saying something I shouldn’t.”

Madara had always known that Hashirama was far more socially-aware and politically-savvy than his usual bumbling demeanour might suggest. “It’s likely that any strange summons would be looked on with suspicion,” he said, “but if he had been replying, it means that the magpie had gotten through at least once.” And at least _one _clansman with the Sharingan would have seen it and reported to Hikaku.

“Are there any possible reasons for Tobirama to be forbidden from replying?” Mito asked.

Glancing at her, Madara shook his head. “The whole clan has witnessed my vows,” he said. “He was promised freedom, which means that he can leave the compound as easily as any Uchiha. Writing to people outside of the clan, to his own _brother_, shouldn’t be an issue.” Tobirama wasn’t a prisoner; Madara had made that very clear.

“What’s the point of us standing here debating about the reason?” Izuna said, crossing his arms at his chest. “We’re steps away from home, and once we’re there, we can figure it out and tell you.”

His little brother had a point. “Will you be alright with that?” he asked Hashirama.

“I want to get over there to see that he’s okay,” Hashirama said, dragging a hand over his long, loose hair. The strands fell back in place easily; Madara hated the bastard for having manageable hair. “But I can see why that’d be a bad idea even if I have you two with me, so… yeah.” He reached out and squeezed Madara’s shoulder. “I trust you to send word as soon as you can, Madara.”

Only Hashirama, Madara thought wryly, would use statements of fact to get what he wanted. He wondered if it was something he had learned from Mito, or if the duties of a clan head had given it to him. The boy he met at the river wasn’t nearly this calculating.

(Wait, what about all of those times when Hashirama had faked crying just to get Madara to apologise, and then made fun of him? Could that be considered as manipulative?

—Argh, now he was doubting his own judgment and memories. He _hated_ it when that happened!)

“Yeah,” he said, patting Hashirama’s hand lightly. “Stop fretting.”

“I’ve always known where he was,” Hashirama said, lips pressed into a line. “Even when he was in Uzushio, we’d write every day. Even when he’s angry at me while away, he would still write. The only times when I don’t know what’s happening to him is when he’s on a mission, but then I’d know the parameters and could make a guess, and—” he took a deep breath, visibly calming himself, and sighed.

And Izuna thought _Madara_ was overprotecting for stalking him with his sensory ability. Hashirama didn’t have the same thing that could allow him subtlety, which meant that Tobirama was acutely aware that his brother was _always_ keeping track of him.

Which, Madara thought, wasn’t exactly a surprise. Hashirama had never spoken of his two youngest brothers’ deaths, not since informing Madara about them, but given that they had _died_ and Tobirama was the only one he had left…

(Somehow, it didn’t fit. If Hashirama was this worried, why would he allow Tobirama to go alone to the Uchiha compound? Why would he allow his little brother, who was all of sixteen, to become Madara’s _concubine_?

When on Earth would Madara have the opportunity to ambush Hashirama with all of the _questions_ he had?) 

He shook the thoughts out of his head. “As soon as I can,” he assured again. “Now let me go so that I can write to you faster.”

Hashirama’s gaze bore into him for a moment more before he nodded. “We’ll meet in three days, right?” he asked. “To talk about the building of the village with representatives of both clans.”

“We will,” Madara said. And because Hashirama was obviously waiting for it, “Your brother will be there. I promise.” They would need Tobirama anyway. For his knowledge of infrastructure and town planning, if not for Hashirama’s sake.

Another nod, and Madara turned away. He crossed the bank to the river itself in one leap, channelling chakra to his feet as he ran across the surface. Behind him, water splashed as Izuna followed.

“Izuna,” Madara said once his brother had pulled up to run alongside him, “will you receive Hikaku and Tsurugi’s reports once we’re back?” 

They had already given him the most important information through coded letters sent through his falcons, so these verbal reports were what was left: partly what they had judged to be less important, and partly what they had thought to be too sensitive to be told through letters.

Izuna was always better at differentiating between those, anyway.

“You need to check up on Tobirama,” Izuna nodded. “Don’t worry, I’ll do it.”

Something shifted in his eyes, but it was gone before Madara could turn his head to look properly. Another hallucination? Madara shook his head. He _really_ needed some proper sleep. Maybe he could put a rock on Tobirama so he would stop moving around and using chakra in the wee hours of the morning? 

(Or Madara could just go to bed earlier. Doing that seemed like some kind of defeat, though; Madara shouldn’t need more sleep when Tobirama could survive on so little of it.)

They were barely fifteen minutes from the compound when Madara remembered to flash his chakra to announce their return. They had informed Hikaku, of course – sent back a letter with Fuyume when Hikaku had set him free from the aviary to look for Madara – but the exact timing was always nebulous.

Which was why Madara nearly tripped over a tree branch when he realised that there was actually a _welcoming party_.

“Madara-sama, Izuna-sama,” the five men intoned, bowing deeply, “we are beset with joy and relief upon witnessing your safe return from your travels.”

Waving away the ceremonious words, Madara narrowed his eyes. Hikaku and Tsurugi’s presences he could understand – they would have dropped everything the moment they knew about his and Izuna’s return, because greeting them after diplomatic trips was part of their duties – but the three elders? Hiuchi, Ryuuon, and Choukai especially?

Maybe they were hoping that the trip was a failure. Hiuchi certainly would – he had lost his three eldest children to Senju shinobi, leaving behind only a daughter, and had been loud and vehement in his protests against the peace treaty despite the rest of the clan’s agreement. Choukai had lost siblings as well and so had rejected peace for much the same reasons. 

But Ryuuon? The most venerable and respected of the clan elders had remained mostly silent during the debate, and he had _never_ come to greet Madara. Not even after that all-important trip to the Akimichi’s. For him to be here was… uncharacteristic, to say the least.

Brushing the thoughts away to consider later, Madara said, “The daimyo has agreed to the village.” He made sure to use the loud, carrying ‘clan head’ voice he had trained himself in ever since his chakra levels and skill with jutsu had made him a clear candidate for heir even when his three elder brothers had been alive. “In three days, we will meet with the Senju along the Naka River to discuss further. A clan meeting will be held an hour after sunset. Spread the news.”

Then, before anyone could protest or even say a word, Madara beckoned. “Hikaku, Tsurugi, walk with us.”

The two men gave a small bow before they followed, Hikaku coming up beside him on his left, with Tsurugi on his other side. Madara spared a glance to the dismissed elders before he turned to the two men he had left in charge in his absence.

“Give your reports to Izuna later,” he murmured. “Right now, I have to know: did something happen to Tobirama the past week?”

Hikaku’s eyes darted towards Izuna, for some reason, before returning to him. He didn’t speak for a moment before he ducked his head down, exchanging places with Tsurugi.

“Madara-sama,” the older man greeted, his voice barely above a whisper, “a week ago, Mikami reported that besshitsu-san was called for a meeting with the elders.”

With the _elders_? What would they have anything to do with— were they trying to— Why had the letters not tell him of this?

Taking a deep breath, Madara leashed in his rising temper. “Did she tell you which ones?”

“She only knows for sure that Hiuchi-sama was one of them,” Tsurugi replied. “Though, given that Choukai-sama and Ryuuon-sama had been with him at the gates since sunrise…” He left the sentence hanging.

Madara could fill in the blanks perfectly well. His lips thinned. “Thank you,” he said. “Go with Izuna to make your report; he’ll fill me in later. I’m going home to see Tobirama.”

Tsurugi bowed his head. But before Madara could turn away, Hikaku murmured, “Madara-sama.”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful,” Hikaku said, and his eyes flashed red for a moment as they met Madara’s. “You might look so enamoured with besshitsu-san that you’re neglecting clan affairs.”

Enamoured with— Madara was only doing this because he had made a vow to ensure Tobirama’s care, which was made because Tobirama was the one who had made peace possible in the first place. The entire clan owed him, and if they think that Madara was paying undue attention to him, then they could—

Izuna’s hand curled around his elbow. “He’s right, Nii-san,” his little brother murmured into his ear. “I know that you aren’t, Hikaku knows that you aren’t, anyone who thinks for a moment knows what’s really going on. But whispers can still spread, and… things are still tenuous right now.”

“The clan compound shouldn’t be a place where I need to second-guess my words and actions,” Madara hissed.

“It wasn’t before because the clan has always been confident that you’ll lead them to victory, Nii-san,” Izuna said. “But now it’s not victory we’re heading towards, and no one knows anything about the village except for the two of us.” He let out a breath. “You can’t blame our clansmen for being suspicious and cautious, Nii-san.”

Madara breathed in through his nose so his eyes wouldn’t flash red.

They had _food_ now, winter stores aplenty from the trips that Tsurugi’s subordinates had taken to the nearest cities to sell the Uzushio fish and buy more provisions. And the blacksmiths were designing for jewellery to be sold in spring, jewellery made only possible from the silver they bought using their profits from Uzushio pearls. Once winter was over, Uzushio would send another shipment, and that would be enough to not only provide for the clan, but also fill their coffers.

And none of that would have been possible without this peace treaty. Without _Tobirama_. Who gave up his home and his Senju identity, came over here and made Madara’s clan compound better by easing the workloads of _three_ groups of civilians… and all that without receiving _any _benefit.

All Madara was doing was delivering on the promises of fairness, respect, protection and freedom that he had made. Those were the bare minimum of what Tobirama deserved after all that he had already done for the clan. 

_Your ways were inefficient, and I could make them less so_, Tobirama had said._ So, I did. _As if bettering the lives of his birth clan’s lifelong enemies had been nothing.

The Uchihas had always, _always_ acknowledged their debts and given gratitude where it was deserved. Shinobi might not have honour in the eyes of civilians and nobles, but the Uchiha had always had their own forms. And they wanted him to disavow _that_?

Ex_hale_. “You came up with this idea, Izuna,” he said, and was relieved that his voice remained calm. “Don’t forget that.”

Before Izuna could reply, Madara closed his fingers around the hand on his elbow. He squeezed once to show Izuna that he wasn’t _really _mad at him before pulling away, shoving his hands inside his sleeves to hide their clenching as he strode back home. He barely managed to remember to nod in response to the bows he received from the clansmen he passed.

He took the step up to the engawa, swung opened the front door, and froze.

Seated in seiza barely steps above the genkan, Tobirama folded his hands. He bowed low and touched his forehead to the floorboards. “This lowly concubine,” he said, “greets his lord, Madara-sama, upon his return.”

Staring at the nape of Tobirama’s neck, exposed by his short hair and the low-riding collar of his kimono, Madara swallowed. Slowly, carefully, he closed the door behind him so that no one else would witness this show of— of—

_Subjugation_.

“What are you doing?” he finally managed to choke out.

Tobirama lifted his head, but his eyes remained fixed upon the floor. “Is my lord displeased with this lowly concubine?”

Madara might not have taken much note of Tobirama before he came to his house – they usually met on the battlefield, and, most times, Madara was far too distracted by Hashirama to truly look at his younger brother – but he remembered the bits he had seen. Tobirama had always been flashes of pale skin and white hair, his dark blue armour a streak of colour amidst the dull brown and red of soil and drying blood on the battlefield. His water dragons had been large and fierce enough that Madara could feel the surge of his cool-springs chakra even from the other end, and the clouds of steam from them meeting Izuna’s fireballs had always spread so much that Madara sometimes found his sleeves wet in the aftermath of a battle.

The Uzumaki delegate had called him _arashi no shihaisha-sama_, and Madara hadn’t needed to ask to know where the name had come from: Tobirama had called storms down on them before, soaking the battlefield until the Uchiha slipped with every other step while the Senju treaded lightly upon the sinking mud like they were used to it, like they had trained for it. And there had been one time when Izuna’s lightning had clashed directly with Tobirama’s, the air searing with the stench of burning mud. The thunder had cracked so loudly that Madara had felt his ears ringing afterwards.

He had made a lake for Mikami and the others, creating a crater like those Madara had seen on his rare trips to the Land of Water, where a falling meteor had hit land and razed it, and the rain that had followed had created a lake. He had made it in one morning, performing a feat like he was a force of nature made flesh, and now…

Now he was here, kneeling at Madara’s feet, not even meeting his eyes. Calling himself _lowly_, saying that he was a concubine like he truly believed in the position instead of it being a _farce_ crafted to allow the Uchiha to easier accept the end of a war that had consumed their lives, that had let the clan to keep the pride that allowed their lungs breath.

“Stand up,” Madara rasped. He stumbled forward, both hands clenching around Tobirama’s biceps. “Get on your damned feet, how _dare_ you—” 

“This lowly concubine is—”

“Stop calling yourself that!” Madara said, barely keeping himself from shouting. “You are _never_ to refer to yourself that way.” Because Tobirama wasn’t saying those words like Mito had used _this unworthy woman_. She had used them as a mockery, a reminder that she was _not_ unworthy; a flash of the steel of her spine like every flap of her fan had been a display of their sharpened ribs. 

No, Tobirama said it like he meant it. He knelt at Madara’s feet like he was _nothing_, when Madara owed him _everything_.

“I told you,” Madara said, using every bit of strength he possessed to keep his voice even, “that you are not to use any honorifics that imply the lowliness of your station in comparison to mine.”

“But you are clan head,” Tobirama said. He was _still _not meeting Madara’s eyes. “And I am but a concubine.”

“Within the first twelve hours of your arrival,” Madara reminded, “you stood in the middle of my clan compound and argued with me about the inefficiency of our ways.” He pressed his eyes tightly shut, feeling the flames of the Sharingan licking at the chakra coils behind them. “I want you to only speak to me like—” 

There was pressure against his lips. Something was squashing his nose.

Madara’s eyes snapped open. The world was washed in red, and he barely had a glimpse of Tobirama’s squeezed-shut eyes before he tripped over his own feet, shoulders slamming against the front door.

“Tobira—”

The tongue that slipped inside his mouth was clumsy, unpractised. Their teeth clacked against each other. Tobirama’s nose pressed so hard against his that Madara could feel his cartilage bending uncomfortably. When he tried to move away, Tobirama turned his head. His teeth nearly sliced Madara’s bottom lip open. 

It was, without a doubt, the worst kiss that Madara had ever received. It was so bad that Madara didn’t even think it deserved the word ‘kiss’; it was a mouth attack, at best.

There was no doubt that Tobirama had never kissed anyone before. 

His hand reached up. He could push Tobirama away, but he didn’t think that would help with understanding what the hell was going on. So, instead, he curled his fingers around the nape of Tobirama’s neck, closed his eyes, and slammed open his chakra sense.

Trepidation_. _No, worse than that— _fear_. Something closer to _terror_ because with his skin touching Tobirama’s, he could feel how hard he was suppressing the emotion. Tobirama was kissing him and he was terrified and Madara was going to _kill_ Hashirama, because not only had the goddamned _bastard_ entrusted him with his little brother, Tobirama was a virgin. He was completely inexperienced and untouched and he was now Madara’s concubine and _someone had said something to him_.

He had a good idea who that might be. Later.

Careful, he reminded himself; this was Tobirama’s first kiss, and Madara refused to make it a bad memory. Concentrating, he stripped his chakra of the fire affinity, and _pushed_.

Tobirama _melted _against him, jaw growing slack. Madara shifted his hand to the younger man’s— the _boy’s_ cheek, tilting his head sideways before drawing Tobirama’s bottom lip into his own mouth, sucking on it lightly. His other hand wrapped around his waist, holding him up as Tobirama made that sound again, that gasping near-whine in his throat, and Madara pushed even more of his chakra in, wrapping Tobirama with the heat of it.

The door was digging into his shoulder blades. Madara shifted his knees, dragging Tobirama down with him to the floor. Gentle licks against his palate, in between his lips and teeth, and _there_, he could feel the fear retreating, replaced by something like confusion twined with pleasure— which spiked when Madara grazed his fingers over Tobirama’s hairline, trailing down, down, and _oh_, Tobirama’s senses were prodding him back too, chakra rising to meet his, cool and refreshing like a late spring breeze in midsummer.

Very slowly, Madara pulled away. He pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of Tobirama’s mouth before he withdrew his chakra entirely. He kept his gaze on Tobirama, memorising every flutter of white lashes until those red eyes snapped open and focused on him.

Yeah. He definitely liked it much better when Tobirama was meeting his gaze, practically boring into him with his eyes despite the activated Sharingan. Which reminded him… he switched it off, and ignored the headache that threatened between his brows. 

“Do you,” he said, his own voice roughened by his heavy breaths, “even know why you reacted to me like that?” 

Tobirama stared at him. Then he reached up, shifting, and Madara had a very, very brief moment to process that Tobirama was _straddling him _before pale fingers were close to his eyes and starting to glow green. “What—”

“Stay still,” Tobirama ordered, and _there_ he was, the fierce warrior Madara had seen on the battlefield who had earned titles like _white demon _and _ruler of storms_. Madara opened his mouth. 

“Can you activate your Sharingan?”

“Hn?” Madara blinked.

“Your Sharingan,” Tobirama said. “Activate it.” He paused. “If you would please, my—”

“Call me that again and I _won’t_,” Madara huffed. Tobirama paused before his head bobbed just once.

“Madara,” he said. “Your Sharingan. Will you activate it again?”

He obligingly turned it on. The world grew sharper, piercingly bright in its intensity, and Madara fought the urge to squint—

“Your Mangekyou,” Tobirama murmured. “Please?”

What the hell was going on? But Madara’s hand was still on the nape of Tobirama’s neck, and there was no malice in the emotions he could feel, only a certain curiosity and… urgency? What was _that_ about? Why was this man so fucking confusing?

While his thoughts chased themselves in circles, his Sharingan had already shifted to Mangekyou. The headache _smashed_ full force into him, a heavy throbbing between and behind his eyes. Madara gritted his teeth, keeping his gaze fixed on Tobirama’s. Without the blood-rush of battle, it was horribly uncomfortable and he wasn’t sure why he was doing it except that Tobirama had _asked_ him, and—

And he knew what the Senju thought and felt about the Sharingan. But Tobirama wasn’t looking away, wasn’t shying from it, getting closer even though Madara could put him into Tsukiyomi right _now_ and he wouldn’t even know until he was caught in it. It was a show of trust that he wasn’t even sure Tobirama was cognizant of giving, and Madara—

He had promised fairness, and he had meant it with everything he had.

“Your office is the brightest room in the house,” Tobirama muttered, snapping him out of his thoughts. “You never do paperwork except in the brightest hours of the day. Your hearing is sharp enough to hear the changes in my breathing when I’m close. You have honed your chakra sense enough to feel my emotions, even though you need to touch me to do it.” 

All of that was true, but— “Tobirama,” Madara said as calmly as he could, “what are you talking about?”

“The Sharingan’s chakra feels corrosive,” Tobirama continued as if he hadn’t heard, which was likely possible because he was _still _staring at Madara’s Mangekyou even as his fingers brushed up the bridge of Madara’s nose, settling between his brows and nearly making him cross-eyed as he tried to keep track of them. “I’ve never wondered why.”

“Will you answer me, for fuck’s—”

“You’re going blind,” Tobirama said, stating baldly the secret that Madara had been trying to keep for nearly a year now. Before Madara could protest, could throw him off, Tobirama did _something_ and a soft chill washed through his head. The pain was still there, but he couldn’t feel it anymore.

Kind of like sticking a swollen, aching limb into snow, actually. 

“It’s corroding your coils and your nerves,” Tobirama told him. “Eating them away. I can feel your cells dying, Madara. You’re not doing anything with your Mangekyou right now, just activating it, and they’re _dying_.”

“Well,” Madara blinked. “Yeah.”

“You _know_ that?” The words burst out of Tobirama.

“Why do you think Izuna rarely uses his Mangekyou even on the battlefield?” Madara asked, a little mystified about how they had reached _here._ It wasn’t exactly an alien feeling when it came to this man. “I told him to not do it, because the Mangekyou blinds the user eventually.”

“And _you_ still keep using it,” Tobirama stated flatly.

“Uh…” Now it was Madara’s turn to stare at Tobirama like he was an idiot. Which was nice. “How on _earth _am I supposed to go up against Hashirama’s stupidly overpowered mokuton otherwise?”

And _someone _had to match him. If Madara couldn’t, he wouldn’t be fit to be clan head.

Though sometimes he suspected that Hashirama went easy on him, like they were sparring instead of battling all-out like they should. It seemed like something the asshole would do, and probably laugh when confronted about it, too.

“You’re going _blind_,” Tobirama repeated, sounding frustrated now. “You _know_ you’re going blind and you still—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “There _must_ be a cure.”

“Tobirama,” Madara said, helplessly amused despite himself. “You literally just told me that my cells are dying. ‘Dying’ is generally permanent. There _isn’t _a cure.”

Well, there _was _one: the Eternal Mangekyou that came with taking Izuna’s eyes. But that would literally leave Izuna with empty sockets, _and_ there were no clan records of any kind that swapping eyes would work. Madara refused to risk his little brother’s sight on a _gamble_.

“That’s—” Tobirama started before he clicked his mouth shut. Madara watched, a little fascinated, as his eyebrows twitched several times. “You’re going _blind_,” he said again.

“I think we’ve established that,” Madara said, wry. “I’m not sure what’s the issue here, because I’ve known it’s a possibility even before I’ve awakened the Mangekyou.” When he and Izuna had found Dad’s body after he had gone off on a suicide mission because he had refused to die in a bed. “I’m _really_ not sure why you’re freaking out so much.”

“Madara,” Tobirama said. The urgency in his chakra was making it churn like the ocean during a terrible storm. “Are you _sure_ there is no cure whatsoever?”

“Centuries of clan records say so,” Madara confirmed. Then, squeezing Tobirama’s shoulders with both hands, he shook him a little. “You mustn’t mention this to anyone.”

“Why?” Tobirama tilted his head. “Anija is very good with medical ninjutsu, and so is Aneue—” 

“_No one_,” Madara stressed. He didn’t trust Hashirama or Mito to not start blurting his secret to people, or, worse still, to tell Izuna about this the moment they knew. “Promise me, Tobirama. Swear on Hashirama’s life that you won’t tell anyone about what you know about my eyes.”

Tobirama opened his mouth. Then his teeth clacked together and his lips pressed into a thin line. For some reason, his cheeks puffed out at the same time. “You don’t have to make me swear,” he muttered. Was he _sulking_? “I promised obedience, Madara. If you don’t want me to tell, then I will submit to your wishes.” 

_Submit_. Madara twitched. “We’ll talk about that another time,” he said hurriedly. “Right now, I need you to swear, Tobirama. You can’t tell _anyone_.” Izuna must not know. Madara had recurring nightmares of his brother with empty holes where his eyes had been and blood trailing down his cheeks to understand how necessary it was that Izuna couldn’t even _suspect_.

Besides, it would be so much easier for Madara to go blind than Izuna: he was a sensor. His little brother had no such thing to help him compensate for the loss of sight.

Another moment of silence. Tobirama’s eyes were fixed on his, and his chakra sense nudge at Madara again before he sighed. “Fine,” he said. “I swear on Anija’s life that I will tell no one about the state of your eyes, Madara.” He huffed out a sharp breath through his nose. “Though I still think that it is stupid and unreasonable of you to keep this a secret.”

Despite himself, Madara barked out a laugh; it sounded so much more right for Tobirama to insult him than to be on his knees. “Respect my wishes, damn you,” he said. Then, before Tobirama could say another word, he shifted his hand to his face. Now that that was settled, he had to move onto the second order of business.

Deliberately gathering his chakra, he slowly let it sink into Tobirama’s skin, and watched, Mangekyou fading back into Sharingan, as Tobirama gasped and _jerked_ like he had been struck by lightning.

(He was still in Madara’s lap. That was… unfortunate. Yikes.)

“Do you know,” he weighed his words carefully, “what it means for you to react like that?” 

White lashes fluttered lightly before Tobirama focused back on him, still meeting the Sharingan head-on. He shrugged.

Meaning that he had no fucking clue. Tobirama was so inexperienced that he couldn’t even identify arousal. And he was now _Madara’s _thrice-damned_ concubine_.

“I,” Madara bit out, “am going to _kill_ Hashirama.”

“Will it help?” Tobirama asked.

“Hn?” Madara blinked. Would what help _what_? 

“If I henge into Anija,” Tobirama said, staring dead into Madara’s Sharingan with a look of absolute seriousness, “will you have sex with me?”

Wait— the fuck— he— Hashirama— sex— what? “_Hnrgh_?” 

“If I henge,” Tobirama started. Madara slapped a hand over his mouth.

“Repetition,” he growled, “does _not_ clarify _anything_!”

Tobirama’s red eyes narrowed above his hand, but he didn’t say anything. Unlike Izuna, he also didn’t try to lick Madara’s hand, which was a blessing because Madara didn’t know what he would do if Tobirama did that. 

After a moment, Madara dropped his hand back to his side. “Okay,” he said. “Why do you think pretending to be your brother would—” Ugh, he couldn’t even _say_ it. 

“You speak of Anija a lot, even if it was to threaten to kill him.” Tobirama had the gall to sound long-suffering when _Madara_ was the one practically dying over here. “The two of you met when you were children, and despite the years that have passed since then, you have rekindled your friendship quickly. It is not unreasonable to suspect that you have some lingering fondness for him.”

_Not unreasonable. _Oh, for— Madara gave up: he buried his face into his hands and _screamed_.

“Was I mistaken?” Tobirama asked, cocking his head to the side.

Taking a deep breath, Madara tried to collect himself. He had to make Tobirama understand. “When I look at Hashirama,” he said as calmly as he could, which meant that his voice was shaking, “I see a stupid kid with a bowl cut, absolutely no fashion sense, and a horrible habit of pretending to be depressed to make me feel bad so he can laugh at me.” 

“He doesn’t look like that anymore,” Tobirama said, still having the gall to sound like Madara was the crazy one. “And from many sources, I know that Anija is handsome. Attractive, even.”

A slow, controlled breath. Nope. He couldn’t.

“Are you—”Madara choked out. “Are you trying to convince me to feel attracted to _your brother_?”

“I am trying to explain why it is reasonable for you to be!” Tobirama threw up his hands like _Madara _was being frustrating. “The two of you broke a centuries-long tradition of war based on your childhood friendship. It is entirely within the realm of reason to suspect that you—”

“No.”

Tobirama blinked. “No?”

Madara grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him again. “_No_,” he said, voice steady and _firm_ now. “Hashirama and I did _not_ break the centuries-long war between our clans. _You _did, you and Izuna both.” He slapped a hand over Tobirama’s mouth again because he could _see_ the protest forming. “The two of you sat down and talked about the war, tried to find ways to stop it, and _succeeded, _which is far more than what Hashirama and I have _ever_ done. Far more than _anyone _had done in literal centuries.”

He took a deep breath. “Tobirama,” he said softly. “You made this peace. You bought it with your home and your surname. Do you not understand that?”

“I—” Tobirama started. Then he shook his head.

“Who was it?” Madara asked, shifting his hands to cup Tobirama’s face. “Who told you that you had to have sex with me? Who made you think that’s so necessary that you would even resort to pretending to be your brother to do it?”

Tobirama closed his eyes. Madara refused to let him turn away, instead pulling Tobirama closer until their foreheads touched. “Who,” he said, his breath ghosting over Tobirama’s lips, “_was it_?”

“It is my duty,” Tobirama said. “As your concubine. It is my duty to,” he swallowed, throat working. 

Gods above, the _terror _Madara could feel coursing through the boy in his arms. Madara carded his fingers through white hair, trying to soothe. “You are _my_ concubine,” Madara said, fierce and sharp. “_Mine_. Your duties are for _me_ to decide, not anyone else.” One hand slipped down to the small of Tobirama’s back, gathering him into his arms. 

“And I say,” Madara continued, leashing his temper as best as he could, “you will _not_ have sex with me until you actually understand what it means that you let me touch you like this. Until you _want_ me to have sex with you instead of being so terrified of the idea. Do you understand, Tobirama?”

Tobirama let out a shuddering exhale. His hand clenched over the curve of Madara’s shoulder, and he turned his head and bury his face into his neck. “Anija was right to trust you,” he mumbled.

No, Hashirama wasn’t. If Madara was any less of a sensor, if Madara wasn’t settled from his success from the capital, if a thousand and one variables hadn’t aligned perfectly, Madara might have just taken what Tobirama had supposedly willingly offered. He would have taken Tobirama’s reaction to his chakra to be understanding and _consent_ and he would have…

He would have raped him. And it would have been rape, because Tobirama was nothing more than a _child_ who didn’t even understand arousal, and Madara was going to _eviscerate_ the ones who told Tobirama that his duty was to be a sex toy, who would have made Madara into an unwilling oathbreaker and rapist. He was going to tear them from limb to limb for _daring_ to approach _his_ concubine and—

“Who told you?” he snarled. _Fucking calm down_—

“They were right, they—”

“_Who. Told. You?!_” 

“Hiuchi,” Tobirama blurted out. “Choukai. Ryuuon.” This close, Madara could feel Tobirama’s heart pounding against his own ribs. “But they are right, Madara. Your whole clan calls me _besshitsu_, it is my duty—” 

“Tobirama,” Madara said, voice very soft. “My mother wasn’t my father’s legal wife.” He placed his hand on the nape of the pale neck, rubbing his thumb in tiny circles as Tobirama stilled in his arms. “She was his concubine. _Izuna’s_ mother was his legal wife.”

“What—”

“My mother,” Madara continued, “was a civilian, not even related to the Uchiha. Dad brought her home during a mission. She was supposed to be a servant to Izuna’s mother, but they became friends, _sisters, _and Izuna’s mother cried almost as hard as Dad did when my mother died giving birth to the baby who was supposed to be my sister.” He gently nudged Tobirama with his chakra, letting it seep into him.

“Those bastards insulted not only you, but _my birth mother_, the woman without whom I would not exist, when they implied that a concubine’s only duty is to be fucked,” Madara said. “Do you understand?” 

When Tobirama lifted his head, his eyebrows were scrunched together in confusion. “How did a concubine’s son become the clan head?” he asked. “Their role is almost always that of an assistant or an advisor to the _legal_ child.”

Of all the things to ask— something about the way Tobirama said _role _was important. Madara shelved it to think about later. “I’m a good shinobi,” Madara said, wry. “And after I’ve awakened this,” he tapped the side of an eye with a finger, “it’s better than anyone’s in the clan, even Izuna’s.”

“And Izuna’s mother was _fine_ with that?” Tobirama asked, clearly bewildered.

“My mother died when I was _three_,” Madara said, lips twitching despite the rage still boiling within him. He remembered very little of his birth mother: flashes of brown hair, slate-grey eyes, and a grin as toothy and crazed-looking as his own. 

“Who do you think is the woman I called ‘Mom’ most of my life?”

As Dad’s legal wife, Izuna’s mother was legally also _Madara’s_ mother. And she, like every Uchiha, took her role very seriously: most of Madara’s clothes from childhood were made by her own hand, and every meal he took was one she had cooked until she had died from a horrible bout of pneumonia one winter four years ago.

“Oh,” Tobirama said. Madara brushed away a few strands of white hair that had fallen across those red eyes.

It had barely been five weeks since the two of them had properly met. One week they had spent in the same compound but entirely apart, and three Madara had been away. In all, it had only been a week, but…

Madara had always liked those who helped the people whom he already loved. The only exception to that was Hashirama, but Hashirama was like one of those strangler vines that he sometimes used, the things that wound around and sank their roots deep into a tree, becoming such a permanent fixture that the tree stopped being able to survive without the vine. 

(Which generally ended up killing the tree if the vine wasn’t controlled. Entirely appropriate for Hashirama, especially when taking into account the kinds of hugs he liked to give.)

“You haven’t given me any duties,” Tobirama said. He sounded and felt much calmer now, enough to try pulling away.

Madara snorted, leaning back and getting his feet underneath him so he could stand. “Why would I need to do that when you’ve already took plenty upon yourself?” he asked. “Do you think the irrigation system you have built, the lake you’ve made for Mikami, and the fish you’ve helped the fishermen bring back mean nothing?”

“But that’s not—” 

“You are my concubine,” Madara interrupted. “I am clan head, which means you are part of the main house. The duties of the main house are to serve the clan.” As Tobirama stood, Madara flicked a few strands of white away from his face again, mildly teasing. “You started fulfilling your duties even before you’d figured them out, Tobirama. You don’t have to lie back and think of your clan to fulfil your role as my concubine.”

For some reason, Tobirama smiled at that. The barest quirk of the lips, but enough to make the corner of one eye turn up. Enough to soften the sharp lines of his face that had survived the messy strands falling all over it. It made Madara want to kiss him.

He really needed to get a hold on himself, gods willing. He might be a shinobi, but he had _principles_. Especially here, in the compound where his word was supposed to be law.

“Now,” Madara said. “I called for clan meeting after sunset, but before that, I am going to have a _talk_ with Ryuuon and the others.” The wrath he had been keeping wrapped up within him uncoiled, a single tongue of flame licking at his nerves, and Madara smiled with all of his teeth. “And you’re coming with me.”

Tobirama looked at him again, head tilted to the side. Then he nodded, and started making his way to the door.

“Wait.” Madara looked down on himself. He was wearing mostly his travel-worn clothes – there were leaves and twigs buried in his hair again, he knew – but the haori was the formal montsuki one, with five crests on his shoulders and back. He had used it because it was heavy silk, warmest amongst the ones he had brought with him, and, being black, the dirt would be difficult to see.

Now, he shrugged it off. A brush of his fingers against cloth, weaving his chakra into the threads, then he laid it upon Tobirama’s shoulders.

“I’m going to write to Hashirama to get him to send that fur collar you always wear to battle,” Madara murmured as he watched Tobirama slide his arms through the sleeves. “The colours suit each other.” And the fur collar would be undeniably _Tobirama_, a reminder of who and _what_ he was before he had come into the Uchiha compound and Madara’s home.

Madara wouldn’t be as overly-dramatic as Hashirama and Mito by dressing Tobirama as a sacrifice, but he _would_ have a reminder for his clan about all that Tobirama had given up for their sakes.

The rough woollen haori he had given Tobirama back at their oath-swearing hung near the entranceway. Madara shrugged it on. Then, he opened the door. 

Before they stepped outside, Tobirama slid close to him, arm curling around Madara’s elbow. “How many ways,” Tobirama said, voice barely above a whisper, “are you going to lay claim on me, Madara?”

Madara nearly tripped down the engawa and landed face-first on the ground beneath it. “What—” he sputtered.

“I might not understand much about sex,” Tobirama steadied him with a hand, “But I _do_ know what your insistence on dressing me in your clothes means.”

Paragraphs about symbolism and implicit declarations to the clan flitted through Madara’s head. His mouth worked, and no sound came out.

“Then again, perhaps I should be thankful that you haven’t decided that tattooing an uchiwa somewhere on my person was necessary,” Tobirama continued, and was that a _twitch_ of his lips, the little shit? “Since all of you put it _everywhere_.”

Opening his mouth again, this time to protest, Madara looked around. His eyesight might be failing but he could still see the dark blue cloth covering the front doors of every home, paint in the same shade covering the wood of their walls, and the banners that marked the cardinal directions… all decorated with the uchiwa fan.

Which might seem excessive. Then again, this _was_ their compound, and that _was_ their crest. It was only appropriate, damn it!

“Don’t give me ideas,” Madara said, leaning sideways to bump Tobirama’s shoulder with his own. “An uchiwa fan would look great on your forehead. It even matches your colouring.”

Tobirama threw his head back and _laughed_, and Madara…

Well, if it took him a great deal of effort to keep walking and not stare, he couldn’t be blamed for it, could he? He had never seen Tobirama laugh before, after all.

(No, brain, do _not_ go down that route. Bad, bad, _bad_!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Madara’s birth mother being a civilian concubine is basically me grabbing Kishimoto and screaming “inbreeding exists!!!” hysterically in his face. It is also a little bit of conjecture about how the Uchiha clan in present-day canon got the way they were, especially regarding their treatment of Obito.
> 
> (If the most infamous traitor of your clan, the man who basically becomes the boogeyman, has the blood of an outsider, it’s easy to blame his betrayal as not being a “full-blood.” Especially if the alternative to questioning if it’s your fault for driving him into it. (That is, of course, assuming that the fanon about Obito not being a full-blooded Uchiha is truly the reason why he is isolated from the clan.))
> 
> Also, if you’re wondering about the significance of the nape and the wrists, please take a look at a [geisha’s](https://previews.123rf.com/images/rodjulian/rodjulian1205/rodjulian120500059/13875883-geisha-with-red-umbrella-at-the-riverside-back-view.jpg) [outfit](https://cdn.japantimes.2xx.jp/wp-content/uploads/2016/06/hotel-sp-chinzanso-b-20160624.jpg), and generally a kimono. Both of those spots are considered erotic, and the nape in particular is associated with exposing a great deal of vulnerability.
> 
> PS: I am posting this _right_ before my plane takes off. I promise that once I'm back in my own country, I will have time to reply to comments. Right now, I love everything you guys give me, and comments are really the best motivation to keep me going. Happy holidays, everyone, and I hope that you have a good end of a year and a great beginning of the next one!


	9. a concubine’s definition

“Tsurugi!” Madara hollered.

Still outside the store-master’s gate, Tobirama winced. Of all things that his brother could be right about, why did it have to be about how _loud_ Madara was?

“You bastard, I know you’re home!” Madara continued in the same volume, stomping up the engawa while kicking off his shoes like they had mortally offended him by their existence. “Don’t try to hide from me—”

Just as Madara reached for the front door, it swung open with enough force to make the Uchiha clan head rear back so he wasn’t brained by the wood. 

“Madara-sama,” Tsurugi greeted with a low bow that turned his back parallel to the floor. “What need have you of me?”

Instead of answering, Madara took another step back and dropped to one knee so that his head was level was Tsurugi’s. “I know that look,” he said. How could a man make a squint _verbal_? “That’s the ‘I’m going to give him bad rice for the rest of the month’ look.”

“This humble servant has no idea what his clan head is talking about,” Tsurugi said, still staring at the floor. “He has never given Madara-sama bad rice.”

“That week I spent picking out maggots from rice says otherwise,” Izuna said, poking his head out from behind the door’s frame. “Tsurugi, please remember that I live in the same house and share the same provisions as Nii-san. Punishing him for whatever trouble he has wrought also means making _me _suffer.”

“Maggots are extra protein, Izuna-sama,” Tsurugi retorted, finally straightening his back. “You should be glad that I have given you additional provisions.”

Tobirama could see the moment that Tsurugi realised that Madara hadn’t come alone: he dipped his head so quickly that he would’ve tripped over his own feet if not for Izuna grabbing him by the shoulder to steady him. “Ah, besshitsu-san!”

“Oh, that’s just fine, isn’t it,” Madara drawled. “You treat your clan head and heir as recalcitrant brats who need a heavy disciplining hand, but my concubine you give proper deference and respect.”

“Given that I used to babysit the two of you when you were brats who needed their diapers changed, Madara-_sama_,” a woman’s voice rang out, mirth threading into the honorific, “while besshitsu-san here single-handedly stopped danna-sama’s hair from turning entirely white from grief and worry…”

Bending his knees and lowering his head, Tobirama greeted, “Shiomi-san. Tsurugi-san.”

“See?” Shiomi barked a laugh. “He even learns faster than the two of you. Where is my greeting, hm, Madara-sama?”

Sweeping an arm out, Madara gave her a theatrical bow. “Oh, great store-master’s wife, Shiomi-sama,” he intoned, chakra spiking with so much laughter that Tobirama was tempted to start chuckling himself. “Forgive this unruly child’s rudeness for not greeting you properly.”

“Good boy,” Shiomi grinned, patting the top of his unmanageable hair. Beside her, Tsurugi gave a loud sigh, face tipped to the sky, while Izuna cackled.

“Much as I am entertained by this,” Hikaku’s usual measured voice came from within the house, “do you have something you _want_, Madara-sama? We were in the middle of important business.”

“He means gossip,” Izuna whispered loudly to the general vicinity. 

“Important business,” Hikaku repeated, prim.

“I would state what I want,” Madara said, “if you’d actually let me inside the house.” He threw out his arms, and would’ve smacked Izuna in the face if not for the latter’s dodge. “How long am I expected to stay out here, hn?”

“You make for good decoration,” Shiomi said, folding her hands inside her sleeves. “You resemble a koma-inu well enough.” 

Still, she moved away so he could enter. Tobirama nodded to her as he stepped through the door – avoiding the minor scuffle that Madara and Izuna seemed to be engaged in, as the former tried to put his little brother into a headlock – and she smiled at him in return. Tobirama, unsure as to what to do, simply ducked his head and kept his eyes to the floor in reply.

Hikaku was beside the chabudai, his usual rigid poise missing as he sprawled on his stomach. He waved a hand vaguely around him as Tsurugi brought more cups. Shiomi dropped the cushions she carried over from the corner, while Izuna picked up the pot and made sure every cup was filled to the brim.

This was Tsurugi and Shiomi’s house, but all of them moved as if they lived here as well. Even Madara, obviously a guest, simply dropped to sit, cross-legged, on the tatami without waiting for an invitation.

Tobirama had been living among the Uchiha for a month now, but he didn’t think he would _ever_ get used to the casual ease they had with each other. It didn’t make any sense: the honorifics they used definitely denoted a sense of hierarchy, with Madara and Izuna all the way at the top as official clean head and heir, but, aside from those and the bows, the Uchihas didn’t behave like they were above them.

If these were shinobi, Tobirama might understand: sparring eased tensions and loosens the binds of hierarchies, and running missions together had the possibility of making formalities irrelevant. But Tsurugi and Shiomi were _civilians_, already in their late forties but with bodies and hands that had obviously never touched a single battlefield. And with the ways Mikami and Kabato spoke of _shinobi-sama_, he would expect a certain _distance_ between the civilian and shinobi branches.

But there wasn’t. Right now, Shiomi was kneeling beside Madara, nose wrinkling and tongue clicking as she examined his hair. 

“—one of the detangling brushes I use for the cats, Madara-sama,” she was saying.

“Stop _fussing_, woman!” Madara batted her hands away. “I looked plenty decent in the capital, and that’s enough!” He glared at her, and did absolutely nothing in retaliation to the small twig she plucked from his hair to wave in his face. 

“We might respect you more if you look more like a human being than a man-sized hedgehog, Madara-sama,” Hikaku said, and gave Madara a smirk over his cup when black eyes turned to glare at him.

“I didn’t come here for _disrespect_,” Madara huffed. He picked up his cup and drained it in one go like the tea was sake. “I need to pick up some of the fatty tuna, mackerel, and pearls that were part of my share.”

“Oh?” Izuna lifted an eyebrow, leaning closer to his older brother. “Are we going to eat well tonight? I thought that you said that such luxuries are beneath a shinobi, Nii-san.”

Madara waved a hand. “They’re not for us to eat,” he said. “I’m bringing them to the elders.” His lips curved up to the side. “That reminds me: Hikaku, can you inform Ryuuon, Choukai, and Hiuchi that I would be, hn, paying a visit to the three of them? In Ryuuon’s house.” He cocked his head. “Fifteen minutes from now.”

Like Uzushio’s shores after the tides had come in, Hikaku’s face smoothed over, all traces of indolence and mirth disappearing. “Are you sure about that, Madara-sama?”

“There are some things I need to remind them about,” Madara said, curt.

Rising to his feet in a smooth motion that confirmed his position as the third strongest shinobi in the clan, Hikaku nodded. “I’ll inform them,” he said. “Ryuuon-sama will not be pleased about the lack of notice.”

“All I ask for,” Madara smirked, “is tea.”

Hikaku nodded. Then, without another word, he walked past. The coat rack rattled as he picked up his haori before heading out.

“Any preferences?” Tsurugi asked once the door had clicked shut behind Hikaku. 

“The larger pearls, and with a pink sheen, if possible,” Madara instructed. “The fatty tuna and mackerel I leave for you to choose, Tsurugi. You know quality better than I do.”

“Understood,” Tsurugi said. Then, just as suddenly as Hikaku, he left the room.

Deliberately, Tobirama folded his hands on his lap. “Madara,” he said, and did not allow himself visible satisfaction when the man snapped his head back to look at him. “What are you doing?”

He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Shiomi interrupted, “Would you like to stay here with us, besshitsu-san, while Madara-sama speaks with the elders?”

“No,” Madara said before Tobirama’s mind could even formulate a response. “He’s coming with me.”

“But—”

“I would like,” Tobirama enunciated each word carefully, “to know what is going on.”

“So would I, actually,” Izuna said. “Because I’m pretty damn confused right now.” He cocked his head to the side. “Which is a little strange, because it’s obvious that you know what’s going on, Shiomi.” He smiled. “You, Tsurugi, and Hikaku.”

Tobirama forced his fingers on his lap to remain uncurled.

Shiomi looked conflicted, eyes flicking towards Madara. Whatever she saw in his gaze led her to sigh, shaking her head. “There are people for whom balance isn’t good enough.” She hesitated, and her sideways glance to Tobirama was very obvious. “People who desire for visible signs of victory.”

That answered absolutely none of Tobirama’s questions. He opened his mouth, about to demand an explanation—

“Who?” Izuna snapped out.

“That is more for Hikaku to tell,” Shiomi replied, lowering her head. In response, Izuna cursed under his breath and rubbed a knuckle between his eyes.

Grinding his teeth together, Tobirama forced himself to take deep, even breaths.

The people around him were attempting to speak in code, but he could guess what was going on; he might not have Mito’s political acumen, but he _had _been a clan heir, and he was no fool. And it was difficult not to put the pieces together when he could still see those three elders on the stage, far above him, while he knelt on the floor below. 

“Will they be satisfied if I am hung in stocks in the cold?” Despite himself, his hands were curling into fists in his lap. He didn’t want to, he might not be able to bear it, but if it was for peace, if it was for Hashirama’s village… 

“Or,” he forced his voice to remain stable, “would you rather parade me around the compound on a leash?” 

Absolute silence and stillness were his reply. Even Tsurugi, slipping off his house slippers to step on to the tatami, froze at the doorway of the sitting room.

Izuna was the first to recover his composure. “Is that what the Senju do?” he asked, voice deceptively calm. “Do they entertain themselves with the humiliation of their concubines—” 

“Take care, Izuna,” Tobirama bit out, interrupting him, “the Senju might not legally be my family anymore, but they _are_ your allies.”

“Enlighten me, then,” Izuna said, his voice as flat as Tobirama’s. 

“Your elders desire triumph,” Tobirama said, meeting Izuna’s gaze because he refused to let the other man see him flinch. “I doubt they are the only ones.” His life within the Uchiha had been too easy so far; that Tobirama knew for certain now. “My very purpose here is to be a symbol of subjugation—”

Izuna barked a laugh, harsh and mirthless. “You seem terribly _eager_ to fulfil that role, Tobirama—” 

“_Silence, _Izuna.” Madara’s voice was akin to a fire-touched whip as it cracked through the air. 

His brother’s mouth clicked shut. His chakra spiked, sharp and hot with rage, and Tobirama would prod him more, would figure out the reason for the anger, but Madara had whirled around now, so quickly that his hair whipped away from his face.

“You wear my montsuki haori.” His voice was cold and even, entirely unfitting the dizzying spin of his Sharingan’s tomoes. “When I offered it, you accepted. Yet you will still speak about yourself like this?”

Tobirama bristled. “Whatever it might mean, it can’t be as important as your responsibilities as clan head—” 

“Which do _not_ involve pandering to the whims of every single clansman,” Madara cut him off. His hands had grabbed hold of Tobirama’s, thumbs digging into the fragile bones of his wrists. “It is—”

“Do you know the significance of the copse of trees in the north, besshitsu-san?” Tsurugi spoke suddenly. Then, turning, he inclined his head towards Madara. “Forgive me, Madara-sama.”

Before his clan head could even reply, his dark gaze settled on Tobirama again. “Do you?”

“I do not,” Tobirama shook his head.

“Every tree within the copse that surrounds the tributary that the blacksmith apprentices used to go to retrieve water,” Tsurugi said, “was planted, and is constantly tended, by the hands of the civilian members of the clan.”

Tobirama tore his eyes away from Madara’s burning gaze. “What—”

“After every battle,” Tsurugi continued, “we chop down a tree, and carve upon wood the names of those who have been lost.” As he bent to place a storage scroll by Madara’s side, his eyes remained fixed on Tobirama’s. “We burn the carvings with the bodies in a grand pyre of Amaterasu’s black fire, and for the seven days and seven nights that the flames endure, we tell their stories. Their joys, their sorrows, their strengths, and their foibles.

“And our record keepers,” his gaze flickered to the front door, “keep their Sharingan on throughout, their chakra fed by other shinobi members of the clan.”

“The Sharingan ensures that every Uchiha who gave their life for war is remembered,” Shiomi continued, sitting in seiza and hands resting on her lap. “But even that is insufficient for us: we capture the stories in scrolls, and every Uchiha child is told them as they grow.” Her eyes fluttered shut as she let out a long breath. “As long as there is a single Uchiha who still breathes, every member of the clan who has ever existed still lives.”

That was— the Senju buried their dead, consigning them to the earth. There were ancestral tablets in every household, of course, but offerings of incense, paper, and food seemed so minor in comparison to the Uchiha opening up their minds and hearts to the dead like this.

How, Tobirama wondered, dizzied, could they ever manage to forgive the Senju enough to want peace?

“I don’t understand,” he admitted helplessly.

“We commit their stories to memory,” Tsurugi said, “because it is our way of honouring their sacrifice.” Coming to stand beside his wife, he folded his knees beneath him and placed his hands on the tatami.

The Uchiha store-master and his wife lowered their heads together. As one, they said:

“Besshitsu-san.” 

_Oh_. They called him that not because that was all he was— they did it as a— a reminder of—

They refused to call him by his name not because he wasn’t worthy of it, of being a person in their eyes. It wasn’t a refusal, wasn’t a rejection at all.

No, they addressed him by _besshitsu-san _because they wouldn’t allow themselves to forget the sacrifice he had made. A reminder of the position he had lowered himself for the sake of giving them an incentive to agree to peace. For allowing them to keep their pride.

Tobirama’s breath rattled in his chest. He should urge them to raise themselves, but there were only the formal, near-ritualistic reply to praise remaining in his head:

“I only did as I should.” 

Despite the solidity of their truth, he heard the hollowness of the words echoing in his own ears.

“You wear my montsuki haori,” Madara repeated, drawing Tobirama’s attention back to him. “I cannot return you the position you once held, the respect you once commanded, but I _will_ ensure that you are honoured for all that you have willingly given up for our sake.”

There was such fire in his gaze that had nothing to do with his spinning Sharingan. Then, he smiled, eyes fading back to black and brightening.

“As I should,” he said.

What a thing it was, Tobirama thought dazedly, to have the regard of a man like Uchiha Madara.

“Nii-san,” Izuna said. “It’s already been more than fifteen minutes.”

Without taking his gaze off Tobirama, Madara nodded. He picked up the scroll from the floor, tucking it into his sleeve, before he stood. Tobirama stared at the hand held out towards him before he swallowed and let himself be pulled to his feet. 

Then, before Madara could let go, Tobirama used that grip to pull him in until there was barely an inch between their noses. 

“Tell me, clan head of the Uchiha,” he murmured low enough to be heard only by the two of them, “who and what will you have Uchiha Tobirama be?”

Madara’s smile widened. “Have you not already built pipes beneath our feet?” 

Before Tobirama could ask him what he meant, Madara laughed. “Come,” he said, his hair like the black fire he commanded as he swept away from Tobirama to the door. “We shouldn’t keep the elders waiting for _too_ long.”

Scrambling after him, Tobirama barely remembered to turn and bow hurriedly to Tsurugi and Shiomi in thanks for their hospitality. He nodded at Izuna, too.

Outside, the sky was starting to darken. Winter had settled from fully into the Land of Fire heavily enough that every breeze brought heavy chill. Tobirama breathed out an exhale that immediately fogged, and raised his hands to tug Madara’s montsuki haori closer around himself.

The scent of cedar was faint, masked by sweat and travel dirt, but Tobirama could barely take note of either because Madara’s chakra was all over the haori. Tobirama had been trying to keep himself from lingering on it, but now, with the heat of Madara’s gaze upon him digging deep into his skin, he couldn’t. 

He might not have the experience to identify exactly what he felt towards Madara, but he could make conjectures based on the evidence he had gathered.

Even after seven years of having her as his sister-in-law, Tobirama still couldn’t abide by Mito’s touch the way he could Madara’s. In fact, Madara had touched him more within the last week-and-some that they had been in the same space together than even Hashirama had after Tobirama had started shying from his touch because his chakra was too strong, too bright.

Madara’s should be the same. He should be a wildfire, boiling the water of Tobirama’s chakra into steam and searing his nerves until he was scorched from the inside by it. But all he felt from the haori was the gentle heat of a hearth fire, wrapped around him until he could barely feel the winter wind.

He wasn’t quite sure how to feel about it; how he _should_ feel about it. And even trying to contemplate the Uchiha’s behaviour towards him gave him a headache. 

The path they were walking crossed one of the pipes leading from the river at the east gate towards the centre of the compound, dead metal contrasting with rushing water and solid earth. Had Madara meant that he was like one of those pipes, hidden away and nothing but a tool to bring what was truly necessary? It would fit the role Tobirama had thought he inhabited within the Uchiha, but…

Those eyes. No one had ever looked at Tobirama like that. He could almost feel heat rise up to colour his cheeks from the memory.

When he had first sought out Izuna to speak to him about the possibility of peace, he had thought he’d known that the road was dark, but he had never thought about how far that darkness could reach. Much less how much he would be affected by it.

He had never been, before.

(This was how he marked time, now: _before_ his arrival to the Uchiha compound, and _after_.)

Madara had stopped. Tobirama yanked his thoughts away from the spiral that they were threatening towards, throwing his senses out by instinct. 

They were standing in front of the gate of a building close to the compound’s meeting hall, some hundred metres away from Madara’s house. 

A few steps from the front door was a small pond, and within it was three koi, their movements made sluggish by the cold. The splotches of bright orange on their scales were brilliant enough to be seen even by Tobirama’s terrible eyesight. 

The door creaked as it opened. “Madara-sama,” Hikaku greeted, formal and poised once again as he bowed. “Ryuuon-sama and the other two elders are waiting for you.”

“Thank you, Hikaku,” Madara nodded to him. “You can head back now.”

“If you have need of me, I will be at Tsurugi-san’s,” Hikaku said. Then, with another – much shorter – bow, he headed back onto the streets.

“Here,” Madara reached out his hand. When Tobirama curled his hand around an elbow, Madara gave him a smile that almost looked sheepish. “That’s not— I’m not complaining, though. Hold on—” His arm slipped out of Tobirama’s grasp, going to his shoulders, and tugged on the collar of the haori.

“I can’t let them see you with it just yet,” Madara said, tone apologetic. “You’ll get it back later, I promise; it’s yours now.” 

Tobirama snorted quietly as he slipped his hands out of the sleeves. “I already have two of your haoris; I don’t need another. And _one_ walk is enough to send a message, isn’t it?”

“Not by far,” Madara said, leaning back so he could pull the haori on top of the one he was already wearing. “At least a few more times will be necessary.”

“Doesn’t make it mine,” Tobirama said, and put his hand on the elbow that Madara held out meaningfully.

“We’ll argue about it later,” Madara said. “Now, uh… I’m going to need you to act like my prop for this part.”

“Shut up and nod when necessary?” Tobirama raised an eyebrow.

Laughing, Madara shook his head. “A little more than that.” He started walking towards the door. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

When they entered the sitting room, the three elders were seated in front of a square chabudai set right in front of the tokonoma. The seat that faced away from the hanging paintings was Madara’s, of course – he was the guest—

Paintings. Tobirama hadn’t seen a single painting in any Uchiha house he had visited so far; even Madara’s walls were entirely bare. As he took his seat two steps behind and beside Madara – without a place on the chabudai, as he had already expected – he tried focusing on the painting. He couldn’t tell what the artists were trying to capture, but he could see bits of blue. Not the pale blue of some varieties of wisteria, but a deeper, darker shade.

Aizomeblue. Made from indigo plants that grew only in the northernmost parts of the continent, months of travel away from here.

Tobirama was born into a clan of silk-weavers and kimono-makers. He knew exactly how expensive aizomewas, and how it was mostly used for clothes because it was said to cure some skin diseases. To have aizome used on a painting… He thought of the pond with the brilliant and obviously expensive koi in it.  
_  
Only Nii-san wears armour to battle, _Izuna had told him. _Everyone else’s have been sold_.

Hands folding on top of his lap, Tobirama lowered his head.

“—a surprise that you wish to see us right now, Madara-sama,” Ryuuon was saying. “Especially since you have brought besshitsu-san with you.” 

“You didn’t even take the time to wash and change, Madara-sama,” Choukai said. “We are honoured.”

Ceramic clacked dully against wood as Madara placed his cup down. Did they— did they give him a cup made from clay? Porcelain didn’t make that sound.

“Forgive me, I couldn’t help myself,” Madara said. “I _had_ to rush over to thank you immediately. All three of you.”

“Oh?” Ryuuon asked. “I wasn’t aware that we have done anything worthy of thanks, especially from our esteemed clan head himself.”

Madara gave a chuckle, the likes of which Tobirama had never heard from his throat. For some reason, it reminded him of the ways Hashirama would smile when he was imagining various ways mokuton could be used to grow the spores in the lungs of the person he was speaking to; how he could use his skill to slowly choke and strangle that person until they could no longer breathe, much less speak. 

“Though the trip to the capital has been fruitful, it has also been…” Madara hummed thoughtfully. “Frustrating, you might say.” Another one of those false laughs. “You have prepared my concubine well for my arrival.”

“We do not understand—” Hiuchi started.

“Come off it,” Madara said, and Tobirama didn’t need to raise his head to know the _thud_ was Madara dropping his elbow on the chabudai and leaning across it. “Who else could have reminded him of his role in my household so astutely? And so promptly?”

Ah, here was his cue: hands forming a diamond on the ground, Tobirama touched his forehead to his fingertips. “This lowly concubine thanks Elders Ryuuon, Choukai, and Hiuchi for educating him on his duties.”

A hand landed on the top of his head. Tobirama supposed that, to the old men, it would look like Madara was pressing his face into the tatami. Madara was actually scratching his scalp. It was a little distracting.

He touched Tobirama _so much_.

“We had been worried for you, Madara-sama,” Choukai said solicitously. “It is long past time for you to have taken a concubine, and we are glad that he has taken the… reminder to heart.”

“Mm, he definitely has,” Madara replied. “I haven’t had such a welcome surprise waiting for me back home for a while now.” The hand on top of Tobirama’s head withdrew, and there was a rustle of cloth. “Please, take these as my marks of gratitude.” The scratch of nail on paper.

Hiuchi’s chakra _spiked_ sharply. “Madara-sama,” he said, and Tobirama could hear the way his breathing was starting to hitch. “You shouldn’t have.”

“I know that fatty tuna is your favourite, Hiuchi, so of course I must,” Madara chuckled. “And if I’m not mistaken, mackerel is yours, Choukai.” 

“Yes— yes, it is,” Choukai muttered.

“Good, good,” Madara clapped his hands together. “Unfortunately, the Uzushio agreement didn’t bring us any swordfish, so I couldn’t bring along _your_ favourite, Ryuuon. I hope the pearls will suffice as replacement. Their pink glow is certainly pleasing to the eye, isn’t it?”

“This is too much, Madara-sama,” Ryuuon said. Tobirama doubted that he was talking about the pearls.

“Speaking of which, Ryuuon,” Madara said, “it must be _such _a stroke of fortune for you to have found your beloved koi again after they have been sold. And these paintings, too; one of them was an heirloom, wasn’t it?”

“A stroke of luck indeed,” Ryuuon murmured. 

“If I recall, Hiuchi,” Madara said, finally turning his attention to the man. “Your daughter will be getting married soon, won’t she? You must be fretting about her wedding kimonos.”

“I— Thank you for your concern about my unworthy daughter, Madara-sama—”

“And I see that you look healthy and hale this winter, Choukai,” Madara continued, utterly merciless. “I am glad; it has been a few years since the clan funds to spare for the ginseng that you need so desperately, hasn’t it?”

_Clink_. Ryuuon’s cup landed, hard, on the chabudai’s surface. “What is the meaning of this, Madara-sama?” he spoke the title through gritted teeth.

“A reminder,” Madara said, and his voice had become cold and sharp. “Do not think that I don’t know about you hoarding your riches, refusing to give them up to the Uchiha coffers.” 

He gave a mirthless chuckle at the silence that followed.

“In view of your long years of service and _wise counsel,_” the mockery Madara twisted into those words was once again like and unlike Hashirama, “I have indulged your actions. I did so assuming – foolishly – that the respect was returned. That you knew that I had _allowed _you to run amuck with your selfishness.” 

His chakra was like the wildfire it was on the battlefield, except _worse_, somehow. Every tongue of flame bit at and burned Tobirama’s senses, a heavy and corrosive—

The Mangekyou. Madara was going blind from it, was hurt whenever he activated it, and he was _still _using it. Right here, in his own compound, where he was supposed to be the greatest authority.

He was risking blindness to prove a point. And he was doing so for Tobirama’s sake. Tobirama’s fingers trembled on the tatami.

“Instead, I find that you think me a fool.” Madara’s voice was very, very soft. “You dare to intrude into _my _household to instruct _my _concubine about his duties.” His nail tapped, just once, against the rim of his cup. “You _disrespect _me.”

That, Tobirama thought, was an entirely different tone that the one Madara had used on the rest of his clansmen when they laughed at and teased him.

“You have,” Madara’s every word dropped like a rock in the middle of a river, “overstepped your place.”

“Are you finished, Madara-sama?” Ryuuon asked. 

“Not by far,” Madara replied. “But you clearly have plenty to say.”

“Indeed,” Ryuuon said. The _clink_ of his porcelain upon the wood of the chabudai’s surface was very loud. “You accuse us of disrespecting you and overstepping our boundaries, but we have only done so in response to _your_ actions.” A deliberate pause. “Madara-sama.”

“Oh? _Do_ elaborate.”

“You have pushed ahead on this peace agreement with the Senju by overriding the wishes of those elder and wiser than you,” Ryuuon said. “We would not mind that if not for the fact that you are dishonouring the lives of Uchiha shinobi who have died by Senju hands.”

“I see,” Madara said. “And you think that is enough justification for you to interfere in the affairs of my household?”

Choukai snorted. “You are clearly partial to the Senju, Madara-sama.” The sneer was clear in his voice. “Whether it is the eldest or the second son… Your judgment cannot be trusted when it comes to the Senju.”

“Be careful of what you’re implying, Choukai,” Madara said.

Hands slammed on wood, making the chabudai shake. “You brought a Senju into our compound,” Hiuchi hissed, chakra rising and burning like a flame fed with oil. “You have committed a travesty that would make our ancestors hide their faces in _shame_ if they were ever to witness it.”

Madara laughed. It wasn’t the false chuckles of before, and neither was it the loud mirth matched by the heat of chakra rolling off his body and warming everything around him. No, Madara cackled like he did on the battlefield on the few times when Hashirama had made a mistake and Madara looked as if he was going to take advantage.

“What,” Ryuuon hissed, “is so funny, son of Tajima?”

“Your folly,” Madara said, his laughter ending as quickly as it had begun. “You think that your age has brought you wisdom, oh venerable elders, but all it has done is to put long years between you and the battlefield. Long years between you and,” another sharp, barking cackle, “the realities of the clan’s condition.”

Tobirama could _hear_ Hiuchi’s teeth gritting. “You—” he started. 

_Ah_, Tobirama nearly smiled; he had finally dropped the polite _anata_ for the _omae _that far more accurately reflected his emotions.

“We were losing,” Madara stated flatly. “We were close enough to starvation that, in a season or two, the Senju would’ve won not because of their own might or superiority, because Uchiha shinobi would be too weak to put up a good fight against them. The Senju knew that.”

He _slammed_ his hand on the table hard enough to make it rattle. “Yet they offered their clan heir for my concubine. They gave him to us, and with him came the riches from the far-off shores of Uzushio, none of which the Uchiha could have touched if not for the Senju’s _mercy_.”

None of that, Tobirama thought, was entirely true.

“How dare—” Choukai started.

“_Silence_,” Ryuuon said, chakra rising to cut the other elder off. Tobirama heard his breath rattling in his throat. “We are nobility, Madara-sama. The Senju are mere craftsmen and shinobi. It is but righteous for _besshitsu-san_,” he drawled out the syllables, “to suffer through a reduction of status.”

“How much has our noble status fed us through the years, Elder Ryuuon?” Madara paused, and then cackled again. “Oh, you surely do not know, for I have indulged you, and ordered for Tsurugi to give all of you elders a bigger portion of our provisions than most.” His nails clacked against wood. 

“The aged, after all, cannot withstand starvation as easily as the young. Neither can you withstand discomfort.”

“You seem more interested in disparaging our age and character, Madara-sama,” Ryuuon said, voice calm despite the vicious rage roiling within his chakra, “than addressing the points we have made about your mistakes regarding this… _peace agreement_.”

“I am saying,” Madara said, “you have absolutely no right to have an opinion.”

A sudden hush settled over the table. This was as good a cue as any, and, besides, he might end up dozing off if he faced the floor any further, fluctuations of chakra right next to him or not.

Uncurling his body, he sat up. The three elders were too far away for him to properly gauge where their eyes were, so he didn’t try to meet their gazes when they snapped to him. Instead, he kept his eyes on Madara’s shoulder.

“You have to explain your meaning, Madara-sama,” Ryuuon said. His eyes were on Tobirama, the Sharingan’s chakra washing over him, but Tobirama didn’t move. “We are old, as you said, and our minds are not as they were.” 

“Certainly,” Madara said.

Suddenly, he dropped backwards. Tobirama barely had time to get his hands out of the way before Madara’s head landed on his lap, his possibly-sentient hair sprawling outwards to frame his face. Tobirama blinked down at him before he settled his hand, gently, on the strands. Madara hummed under his breath, so Tobirama carded through it.

It wasn’t prickly or electrified like he expected. It was… surprisingly soft, really.

“Do not think, Hiuchi,” Madara drawled, seemingly perfectly comfortable right where he was even as Hiuchi’s face started resembling a blob of red, “that I am ignorant about your plans to head to the capital to sell your share of fish and pearls for money to buy silk for your daughter’s wedding kimonos.”

A low, dark chuckle. “Do not think that I know nothing about the letters you have been sending to certain merchants, Choukai, in hopes of trading Uzushio pearls for the ginseng you so desire.”

His lips peeled back, baring his teeth in a vicious smile as his Mangekyou spun. “Do not even imagine that I know nothing about you sending your servants, members of _my _clan, to the cities to sell _their_ shares of Uzushio goods and giving the money to you, going against my orders that each clan member outside of the main house must keep their share for themselves. Ryuuon.”

How had Madara known _any_ of that? He had been away at the capital for three whole weeks, and had only returned this noon. Hikaku and Tsurugi had sent letters, Tobirama knew. Had they been reporting these things to Madara?

Wait; did Madara and Izuna kept none of those luxuries and riches for themselves? _Beneath a shinobi_, Izuna had said, but Tobirama had thought he meant _all_ shinobi, not only the clan head and heir.

Reaching one hand up, Madara curled his fingers with Tobirama’s, effectively distracting him again. 

“How self-righteous of you,” he continued, voice now silkily soft, “to disparage my concubine while enjoying all that his losses have given you.”

The elders were silent.

“I will listen to your disagreements,” Madara said, “if you eat nothing but buckwheat, for without my concubine, we will have naught but that to eat. I will listen if the three of you trek to the river every morning to wash your own clothes and carry water on your own backs, for our apprentices and washerwomen perform their duties using what my concubine has given them.”

His head turned, and he rubbed his cheek against Tobirama’s palm as he said, voice a little muffled, “Reject all of the luxuries that you have enjoyed the past month. Reject all of the comforts that I have allowed you, and which my concubine’s presence have given you. Reject all those, and live as we did, as _I _did, and I will listen to your rejection of the Senju’s peace.”

In a single motion, he sat up and got to his feet. Tobirama stood as well, and followed him to the door.

“Madara-sama,” Ryuuon said. It was only because Tobirama was three steps behind Madara that he didn’t smack into him when he stopped. “Do you believe us so incapable in proving our righteousness?”

“Given how tightly the three of you have held to your koi and paintings even as our clan starved, given how quickly and eagerly you grasped at treasures even when you despise the source…” The Mangekyou’s chakra brushed over Tobirama’s skin as Madara turned his head. “I know you cannot.”

“It saddens this lowly one,” Ryuuon murmured, “how little his clan head thinks of him.”

“Prove me wrong,” Madara challenged. “But until then…” With a flourish, he took off his montsuki haori and laid it over Tobirama’s shoulders.

“None of you have the right to ever _look_ at my concubine, much less speak to him.”

Tobirama’s mouth went dry. He— Madara wasn’t using _besshitsu_ like he had been throughout the conversation. No, he was— he— he had switched to _aishou_. Not only concubine, but the most favoured.

_Beloved_.

He barely had the coherence to wrap his fingers around Madara’s elbow when the man held it out to him. He… What could— it was a method of intimidation, of course, a way of emphasising his point, but surely it hadn’t been necessary. Madara had verbally slaughtered those three men – Tobirama knew that to be truth from the bitter resignation in their chakras – and he didn’t need to…

Madara was closing his eyes. His hand twitched. 

Tobirama took that diversion gladly: he tightened his grip on Madara’s arm, practically marching down the streets until they were on the street in between the block containing the elders’ residences and the main administrative building.

“Stop using your Mangekyou,” he demanded, fingers already glowing green as he touched them gingerly to growing crease between Madara’s brows. “It’s killing your sight and hurting you, and there’s no need—”

Letting out a deep sigh, Madara cupped his face with both hands and leaned in until their foreheads touched. Tobirama’s hand was uncomfortably squashed between their noses; he kept it where he was, seeking out the spots of pain he could feel with his senses.

“It’s been generations since the Uchiha had someone with an awakened Mangekyou,” Madara murmured. “They needed a reminder of just why I am clan head despite my age.”

Tobirama blinked. Madara was twenty, wasn’t he? For a shinobi, that was already past middle age; why would he be considered ‘too young’ to be a clan head in any way?

Something to ask about next time.

“Still, you’re taking too many risks,” he insisted. “This is your compound, not a battlefield—” 

“I prefer the battlefield over dealing with those bastards,” Madara snorted. “And stop fussing; you’re worse than Izuna.”

Drawing himself up, Tobirama huffed. “I do not _fuss_,” he protested. “And if you think so, I should stop—”

“Keep going,” Madara said. Was his voice slurring? That was— worrying. “It feels nice when you do that.”

“It— it’s a _numbing_ jutsu,” Tobirama said, incredulous. “It’s not supposed to feel _nice_.” 

“Mmhmm,” Madara said, and he slumped forward so suddenly that Tobirama staggered before he could wrap his arms around his chest to steady him. “Fuck, it’s been a hell of a day.”

He had _just _returned from three weeks’ trip all the way to the capital, Tobirama recalled. And he had likely planned to rest and maybe head to the river for a bath before going for the meeting with his clan members, but because Tobirama had— tried to fulfil his duties, Madara had needed to…

Closing his eyes, he slid his fingers beneath Madara’s wealth of hair. One hand over the nape of his neck, the other over his chest, chakra gathered and stripped of affinity… he let it sink into Madara’s tenketsu points. It wasn’t a proper substitute for rest, but—

Did Madara have a _fever_? His skin was so hot, like he was burning up from the inside. Or was it just a consequence of his wildfire chakra running unchecked and affecting his body adversely? Tobirama didn’t know, and he couldn’t investigate it further because Madara’s hand was on his sleeve, clenching tight as if trying to hold himself up from the grip alone, and Tobirama wished he had something that could bring them back to Madara’s house so he could get _some_ form of rest—

The Hiraishin. He had nearly forgotten about it, because killing Izuna was no longer an option and being faster than the Sharingan was no longer a priority. But the Hiraishin would be extremely helpful right now, because he could immediately bring Madara back to his home without being tempted to drag him through the streets.

He made a mental note to write to Mito to ask her to send his notes over. He had more time here to work on research anyway, especially with the rudimentary irrigation system completed. Though Kabato had been wondering about the possibility of building at least one bathhouse, which would need a completely different system of pipes—

“It’s not fair,” Madara sighed.

Tobirama blinked, pulling himself out of his wandering thoughts to focus on the other man. “What isn’t?”

“You,” Madara poked him on the forehead, nearly making him cross-eyed, “distract me so much whenever I’m giving you chakra that I can’t think of anything else, and now you’re doing it to me and I can sense you getting distracted.” One eyebrow lifted. “From _me_.”

“It doesn’t take that much concentration,” Tobirama pointed out, confused about why this mattered.

Madara peered at him with unblinking black eyes for a long moment before he shook his head. “So,” he said, “I’m going to rush over to the river to take a quick bath before the meeting. Do you want to come with me?” 

There was something in his voice that made Tobirama tilt his head to the side. “I’ve already bathed for the day, but if you need someone to accompany you, I can.” Didn’t Madara say that no Uchiha left the compound alone?

“The gods save me,” Madara muttered. He straightened – Tobirama obligingly pulled his hands away from him – before dragging a hand through his hair. “Nah, it doesn’t matter; I’ll go myself.” His lips twitched. “The main house is generally exempt from the no-going-outside-alone rules, don’t worry.”

“Right,” Tobirama nodded. “Are you going over now, or…?”

“I’ll have to head back to grab clothes and such,” Madara shrugged. He squared his shoulders and blinked a few times. “Plus, I need to make sure that more people see you in that haori before the meeting.”

Back in Tsurugi’s house, Madara had said: _You wear my montsuki haori. When I offered it, you accepted_. At Ryuuon’s, Madara had laid it upon his shoulders and called him _aishou_.

Tobirama should ask about the significance. But he…

“Coming?” Madara asked, already waiting for him at the end of the street. 

The sun had almost fully set, its last rays streaking across the sky. Some reds and oranges caught in Madara’s hair, seeming to set the strands aflame, and the purples and remnants of yellow wove glittering stars onto his skin. He looked like a kamikakushi of legend, a being who should not exist, and Tobirama—

Didn’t want to ask.

He walked up to him and slipped his hand into the crook of his elbow again. He tried to not notice Madara’s blazing heat pressed against his own arm, or how much the chakra embedded into the haori’s silk had become a shield against the biting cold.

“Kabato-san wants a bathhouse,” he said instead.

“Hn,” Madara grunted. “What’s the point? We’re moving out of this compound into a new village in, what, a year? Two, at most.” He shook his head.

“If you get your clansmen to agree to letting Anija come over, we can have the building up in,” he cocked his head, “a few hours. The pipes will take longer, of course.” 

“_Hours_,” Madara repeated, incredulous.

“Anija would build the village in a single day if you let him,” Tobirama shrugged. “Please don’t let him. Houses made entirely of wood without foundation stones are a disaster waiting to happen, _and_ Anija would’ve just popped buildings up in however layout he thought pleasing without actually thinking of how people would have to live within the haphazard structures he’s created.”

“You have blueprints for the village, don’t you,” Madara said, sounding wry.

“Of course,” Tobirama said. “Am I supposed to leave everything up to Anija?” He arched a brow. “Or _you_?”

Madara burst out laughing so hard that his entire body shook with it. Tobirama should hate it; should detest being jarred by every chuckle and having his arm tugged at when Madara stumbled on a step. But he couldn’t even think about minding.

He was too busy looking at Madara.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Funny side-note: Ginseng is supposedly used by Choukai for boosting his immune system in winter (since pneumonia and everything). But, uh, it is also _very_ famous as the traditional Chinese/Japanese/Korean version of, well, _Viagra_. That’s… actually why Madara mentioned it instead of any other herb. 
> 
> I couldn’t find a way to insert it into Tobirama’s narration, so here, have an author’s note about that because I don’t want to be the only one giggling immaturely over it.
> 
> Less funny side-note: _Aishou_ is 愛妾 in kanji. It is used both by the husband to address the favoured concubine, and by the husband’s subordinates/vassals/etc to address said person. Yes, that’s the same 愛 as that used in “aishiteru; it means “love.” Yes, Madara _is_ calling Tobirama ‘beloved.’ In… a very politically-motivated and roundabout way.
> 
> The two of them are getting somewhere, but they’re still moving at a glacial pace.
> 
> Also, the reason why Madara didn’t bring up Mito’s clause protecting Tobirama from forced intimacy is because the elders _didn’t_ break it. I mentioned it in a few replies to the comments of Chapter 7, but to summarise: by reminding Tobirama of the duties and definition of a concubine, they urge him to initiate intimacy with Madara. Which means that neither the elders nor Madara could be accused of forcing Tobirama, because Tobirama makes the first move. In other words, there’s a loophole, and the elders found it, and Madara had to figure another way to make them stop.
> 
> Last thing: “anata” is the second-most formal form of “you.” It _is_ frequently used by wives for husbands (never the other way around), entirely because it’s a declaration of the wife’s submission and loyalty to the husband. _That’s_ what’s implied when it’s used in a sentence that has _anata_ translated to “darling” or “beloved” in English. 
> 
> “Omae” is the third-most casual form of _you_, right above “temee” and “kisama,” the last two most commonly translated into English as “bastard.” It is the pronoun form used by every single male shounen main character out there, because it implies a certain sort of arrogance usually limited to young boys who are presumed to not know any better. Older men only use “omae” with their wives – the counterpart to “anata” – and their subordinates.
> 
> (Hashirama, Madara, and Tobirama all use “ore” and “omae” up until they are no longer young men, but that’s because they can justify their arrogance with their positions and power. Tobirama switches from “ore” to “washi” in canon after Orochimaru brought him back during the Fourth War, and that’s a deliberate choice because he’s reminding people of his seniority to them as someone from the founding generation. One of the first things he calls Orochimaru and the others is “wakaki-mono,” which means “you young fuckers” with “respect your fucking elders” implied. It’s incredibly passive-aggressive and I love him.)
> 
> This is a stupidly long author’s note about stuff I can’t squeeze into the narration. Thank you everyone who read through all of it.


	10. a safe place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings: **Explicit portrayal the sexual assault of a man by a woman that is 1) not acknowledged outright as such by either party, and 2) from the assaulter’s POV. Mito has her reasons, but that doesn’t excuse what happens here. Please take care of yourselves if this is triggering to you.

The Naka River had served as the boundary between the Senju and Uchiha lands ever since their ancestors had settled here in the south of the Land of Fire centuries ago, Hashirama had explained to her once. East for the Senju, west for the Uchiha, and neither were willing to move away from the rich soils, water source, and forest cover that the Naka provided, especially since the Akimichi had already claimed the lands surrounding the Naka Delta further north.

For negotiations that symbolised the first time the Senju and Uchiha worked together instead of at cross purposes, the western bank was dotted with tents that could hold up to three people standing inside. In contrast, the eastern bank was covered with little cottages around the same size, made by Hashirama when Madara had refused to allow him to use mokuton to build temporary housing for the Uchiha while negotiations for the village was conducted. 

An act of mercy on Hashirama’s part so the Uchiha would not be constantly reminded of what they owed the Senju. Though they would still be reminded of the capabilities of the mokuton with every glance they took of the Senju’s side of the riverbank, the grandeur of Hashirama’s creations wouldn’t be shoved as hard into their faces. 

Hashirama would never see it as an act of mercy, Mito knew. To him, it was mere decency. 

The meetings had been conducted on the river itself, the shinobi members of both clans standing on water while the civilians settled for long boats anchored to the river floor. It must, Mito thought, have been a ridiculous sight, all of them talking on top of the water while scribes sat behind tables at the edge, setting every word spoken onto paper. 

Not that she knew: she had been part of the meeting itself, sharpening her words so the weight of them could be heard even behind the heavy black silk that veiled her face from the Uchiha. 

(She hadn’t been blind, and wasn’t now. When Mito had first married into the Senju family and realised that every kunoichi in the clan had to be veiled when venturing outside the compound, she had invented a seal that would turn the silk as transparent as water.

It had taken her a little longer to master the fine embroidery that was required to make the stitching invisible to all eyes, but there were plenty of obi-makers among the Senju civilians who were willing to teach her.

They had also told her the reason why kunoichi had to be veiled while civilians weren’t: kunoichi in the Senju served primarily as defenders of the compound, and they were veiled so that their identities remained unknown. If the Senju were ever attacked in their homes, their enemy would know absolutely nothing about the capabilities of the defenders.

She knew from experience how useful that was.)

Water roared. Mito pulled herself out of her thoughts, turning back to the river. She only had a few seconds to snicker inwardly at the Uchiha fishermen scrambling away of the rapids caused by the water walls Tobirama had created crashing back to fill the river before her brother-in-law rose to the surface.

His own veil whipped in the winter breeze, the black silk revealing the shape of his nose and jaw before obscuring his face again. Despite having been submerged, he was completely dry.

The first time Mito had seen him do this, back in Uzushio when he had been a blooded shinobi with the body of a child, she had thought him akin to a youkai, or even one of the avatars of Susano’o-no-mikoto from legend. Not even the Uzumaki with the strongest water affinity could do such a thing, especially not with the ease that Tobirama had made it look. 

Madara had been kneeling with his fishermen, speaking with one of them. When Tobirama’s foot touched one of the stones of the western bank, the Uchiha clan head rose and held out a hand. Tobirama hesitated before he took it, and Madara pulled him close, fingers brushing over the too-long sleeve of the montsuki haori Tobirama wore. 

Her little brother’s shoulders had stiffened, Mito noted. She watched the way Madara’s hand slipped down to the small of his back as he leaned in to whisper into an ear, and her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Look at them, Mito,” Hashirama said beside her, a smile obvious in his voice. “I was right to trust Madara, wasn’t I?”

Mito made a noncommittal sound. She was looking; had been watching ever since both clans had arrived at the river, and she hadn’t liked much of what she saw.

“Family has always been important to Madara,” Hashirama continued, “and Tobirama is part of his family now. I knew that he would take care of my little brother.” He let out a soft laugh. “He chose his family over our dream, have I ever told you that?”

“You have,” Mito answered, voice barely above a murmur. 

It had taken years into their marriage before Hashirama trusted her enough to speak about the boy he had met by this very riverbank; about the reason why his father looked at him with suspicion, and how Hashirama had not and would never regret any of the risks he had taken or pain he had suffered because of it.

There was no doubt that Madara was important to her husband. But how much had Hashirama idealised Madara over the years? How much of Madara had Hashirama blinded himself to, simply because those traits didn’t fit the first impression he had of him? How much, Mito wondered, remained of the boy in Hashirama’s memories?

She had spent three weeks with the man in close quarters – the same campground, the same house – and there was plenty she had seen that she knew Hashirama would frown about if he had seen those same traits in someone else. And those were but a few disparate parts of Madara; there was plenty she knew nothing about.

Plenty of reasons, plenty of possibilities, for him to dress Tobirama in his clothes and touch him even as he tensed as if to keep himself from flinching.

“Oy, Hashirama!” Madara called, stomping across the river and splashing water all around his sandals. “Your clan’s share.” 

Behind him, Tobirama set the two baskets of fish he had taken from the fishermen down. “Anija,” he greeted, nodding at his brother. “Aneue.” 

It was the first time in the whole day that Tobirama had crossed the river. That he had, Mito suspected, been allowed to step onto the Senju’s side. 

“Go on,” Madara said, nudging Tobirama lightly. “I know you want to talk to them.” Then, before his concubine could reply, he was already turning his back.

“Are you _sure_ you and your clan won’t have dinner with me and mine?” Hashirama asked, bottom lip close to quivering.

Madara snorted. “Having Senju so close without us trying to kill you is already a miracle, Hashirama,” he said dryly. “Dinner together will be asking too much.”

“But it’ll be a nice political statement!” Hashirama cried, rushing forward. “The Uchiha gets the fish, the Senju cooks it, and we eat the fruits of the labour together…”

Tuning her husband out, Mito took a step closer to Tobirama. “You worried us when you stopped writing,” she murmured. 

“My apologies, Aneue,” Tobirama replied, voice as low as hers and thus easily covered up by Madara and Hashirama’s burgeoning argument. 

“What happened?”

“A little trouble.” He shook his head. “Nothing that hasn’t been dealt with.”

“Hashirama complained that he had to order Touka to not storm the Uchiha compound looking for you,” she said, keeping her voice light.

“I’m glad for that,” Tobirama said. “That would have been dangerous, both to her and the peace agreement.”

He was keeping something from her. Tobirama had never been the most forthcoming of men, but neither had he been so avoidant. Especially not with her when he knew that she could see through any tricks he tried to pull to hide the truth.

Relaxing her control over her chakra, Mito allowed Tobirama to feel the depth of her concern. “Little brother,” she started.

“Do not fret over me, Aneue,” Tobirama said before she could continue. “I am in no danger among the Uchiha.” Barely more than a second’s pause. “I am perfectly safe.”

_Whatever discomforts that the Uchiha would wish to deal to me_, Tobirama had said when he had first come home speaking about this plan, _I can handle them_.

Mito didn’t doubt that: Tobirama might be young, but his strength and will were akin to the waters he commanded, unbreakable and inexorable. Yet Mito looked at his stiff shoulders, the tension barely visible beneath the layers of silk that he had never cared to wear, and she… worried.

“I see,” she said.

“What?” Hashirama asked, bounding back with quick steps. “What, Mito? What do you see?”

“That the sun will soon be setting,” Mito replied, slipping her hand into the crook of her husband’s elbow as he moved to stand next to her. “We should get the fish to the cooks, and,” her eyes darted to Tobirama, “Tobirama to Touka before she loses her patience with us.”

Hashirama laughed, loud and sheepish. “I’m surprised she’s not already here,” he said. “Seeing you healthy must have helped, Tobirama.”

“Or perhaps she knows the risk of breaking the peace, Anija,” Tobirama said, shaking his head. “I can’t believe that you invited the Uchiha for dinner. Have you never heard of taking things a step at a time?”

“What?” Hashirama whined. “It’s a perfectly sensible idea, Tobirama! And you’d get to have us with you for dinner. Don’t you want that? Because I want to eat with both you and Madara instead of having the two of you all the way on the other side.”

“Anija,” Tobirama sighed. “Have you never considered the logistics of that endeavour?”

“Uh…” Hashirama scratched the back of his neck.

“The Uchiha won’t agree to crossing over to this side of the river,” Tobirama started. Mito noted that he did not say _our_.

“Then I can bring our clan over—” 

“And neither will the Senju agree to going en masse over to the western bank,” Tobirama continued, relentless in shooting down his older brother’s bad ideas as usual. “So, if you want us to have dinner together, we have to do it in the middle of the river. On top of the water.” He paused. “Of course, I can pull the water to the side and keep it there while—”

“It’s a bad idea, it’s a bad idea,” Hashirama cut him off, flapping his hands frantically. “We can have a communal dinner with both clans when, uh, when the village is built! On grounds that will belong to both of us! We won’t need to keep to boundaries, then!”

There was always a shift to his shoulders and an uncurling of his fingers whenever Tobirama smiled, or wished to smile. Mito could see it in him, now. “That’s far more sensible, Anija,” he nodded. “You’re improving.”

Hashirama, true to form, stuck his tongue out to him.

“A marvellous response that I, unfortunately, am unable to witness,” Tobirama said, voice dust-dry. 

Before Hashirama could respond – if she allowed them to bicker, they would go on for hours – Mito patted her husband lightly on the head. She had to reach up to do it; Hashirama obligingly bent down to make it easier on her.

“Touka is approaching us,” Mito said. “It’s be best to bring our little brother to her.”

“You’re not coming with us, Aneue?” Tobirama asked.

“There are some duties I have to tend to.”

Hashirama was looking at her, head slightly tilted to the side. Mito ignored his unspoken question – her husband knew that her presence at the meeting and beside him now were the sum of her duties of the day – as she stepped away. “I’ll see you both at dinner,” she said, and turned to leave.

Part of her fortune as Hashirama’s wife was that he had never obeyed the rules and laws of the clan that he had seen to be irrelevant. Even before her father-in-law’s death, he had shown her ways to sneak out to explore the forests and lands around those which belonged to the Senju.

So, it was child’s play for her to hide further north and then turn around to approach the Uchiha’s side from there. She remembered, of course, that her actions could be taken as an attempt to spy, so she took care to conceal her presence.

Madara’s chakra sense might be stronger than hers – she wasn’t sure; she hadn’t had a chance to test it during their trip to the capital – but she had seals on her side: one brush of fingers on her own throat and a matrix blossomed into being, scrambling what little presence remained into something that resembled the lifeforces of the trees around her.

She had barely reached the other end of the Uchiha’s campsite when she found her quarry.

“—a bad idea,” Izuna was nearly shouting. Mito should have known that Madara would be with his brother.

Settling into a nearby tree, Mito caught the edge of her veil with two fingers. A single thought, and ink spread from skin to cloth, bringing the view of Madara and Izuna much closer until it was as if they were but a metre in front of her instead of at least a hundred. Another seal, this time to her earlobe, and her hearing sharpened considerably.

“—not going to keep him from his own brother when they’re just a river apart,” Madara sighed, sounding aggravated.

“And _I’m _telling you, Nii-san, that it’s a bad idea to let him go,” Izuna said, insistent. “Look, we’re all pretending that Tobirama comes from a family that’s not the Senju; that’s the whole reason why the Uchiha providing the Senju with fish even _works_ to balance the power between us. You’re admitting that he’s a Senju by letting him go with Hashirama, which means—” 

“That the credit for what he did goes to the Senju, not the Uchiha, which means that the Uchiha can’t claim superiority for providing the food,” Madara said, sounding like he was rolling his eyes. “I _know_. Stop repeating yourself already.”

“I’d stop repeating if you call him back,” Izuna said.

“No,” Madara said, flat. “Look, I’m not going to keep him from talking to his _family_ for… for some power move that everyone here knows to be illusory. What’s the point—”

“The point is that he’s your concubine to keep that political illusion,” Izuna hissed. “Nii-san, listen: the one who came up with the most ideas for the village is Tobirama.” That was true: Tobirama had brought out blueprints for the village’s basic infrastructure – from streets to underground water pipes and even supply lines and trade routes that could be made based on the plot of land Hashirama had insisted upon using – and even suggested a few basic systems to keep it running.

Though, Mito was surprised that Izuna would admit that fact so boldly.

“Right now,” Izuna continued, “the credit goes to the Uchiha. Even if Hashirama makes every building with mokuton, the Uchiha can still claim to have just as much of a hand in building the village because those buildings are made according to _Uchiha_ Tobirama’s plans.” He took a deep breath. “You let him admit to being a Senju, and there goes all of our credit.”

“Just means that we’ll have to figure out some way to be useful, isn’t it?” Madara crossed his arms, scowling ferociously.

“_Nii-san_!” Izuna shouted, lifting one foot as if to stomp it. “You’re missing my point!”

“No, I get your point perfectly,” Madara sniped back. “_You’re_ the one who’s missing my point, Izuna: I _refuse_ to take Tobirama’s identity away from him. Especially not for politics.”

Izuna’s teeth clacked together. “He is literally your concubine,” he said. “The whole clan calls him _besshitsu_. Forswearing his birth family is part of what he signed up for.”

Mito froze. Every Uchiha called him— They would— 

The Senju had done that to her during the two years of her marriage to Hashirama; they had called her _oku-sama_, because she had not proven herself to be useful at anything, and as such she was known only by the title she had held. It didn’t matter that she had been a princess, the daughter of a man who ruled his own dominion, and the whole clan had known and understood that. 

They had been polite enough to use _sama_ instead of _san, _but that was all the rank her birth family had given her.

(In the second year of Mito’s marriage, the Hagoromo had attacked while the shinobi were out fighting the Uchiha. Touka had thrown herself out of the gates, naginata in hand and threads of genjutsu spinning between her fingers. Mito had already warded the compound walls with seals by then, and she had activated them when the enemies were close enough.

Nearly the entire invading force had been killed. Afterwards, Mito had led both kunoichi and civilian women to decorate the compound walls with the bodies, and ordered the silk-painters to create a furisode of the sight, taking care to capture every single Hagoromo face in perfect detail. She had pressed them to work by both daylight and candlelight for three days straight.

Touka had been the one to deliver it to the Hagoromo’s compound, followed by five kunoichi carrying Uzumaki sealing scrolls containing the bodies. They had stood at the compound gates with their knees bent and faces veiled as they presented the gifts.

The Hagoromo replied with a fan made of feathers of pure white, and never dared to attack the Senju again.

For her efforts, Touka had been awarded the right to fight on the battlefield just one step behind Tobirama. For Mito’s, the Senju had touched their foreheads to the floor and called her _Mito-sama_.

A title was a position, static and therefore of little use. A name was a person, one who could learn to be useful in a thousand ways. A name, Mito had learned through the years, was a _Senju_.)

It was worse for Tobirama, Mito thought, horror sinking deep into her chest. She had been Hashirama’s official wife, equal of him in social status within the clan. 

Tobirama wasn’t. Tobirama was the scion of a family that wasn’t even noble, and a concubine. In terms of social status within a clan, he might as well be _nothing_.

So much so that they did not even give him the privilege of using his name. 

“—not going to convince me to force him to give up his own family, Izuna,” Madara was saying. With effort, Mito forced her attention back to the conversation.

“Then why are we even here?” Izuna demanded, throwing up his hands.

“What do you mean?” Madara said, his one visible eye narrowing.

“The village is _Senju_ Hashirama’s idea,” Izuna said, clearly speaking through gritted teeth. “It is going to be made according to _Senju _Tobirama’s plans, and most likely going to be protected by _Senju _Mito’s seals—”

She really should correct the Uchiha’s misconception that she had taken Hashirama’s surname. Mito was a _princess_; her birth rank completely exceeded Hashirama’s. Woman or not, there was no way she would lose Uzumaki. Not even her father-in-law had had the power to make her do so.

“So,” Izuna continued, “it will be the _Senju_’s village. The Uchiha are just going to be the first non-Senju inhabitants.” He let out a long breath. “If that’s the case, Nii-san, _what are we doing here_?” 

Uchiha Izuna, Mito thought, was a far more dangerous man than his elder brother.

Madara was silent. As Mito watched, carefully regulating her breathing so it wouldn’t alert even the sharpest of ears to her presence, Madara crossed his arms and tapped the fingers of one hand on the other elbow.

“We provide the stones,” Madara said.

“Huh?”

“You know that I won’t let Hashirama make the buildings purely from mokuton,” Madara said, “because that’s a stupid idea, especially around shinobi who are constantly training katon or raiton.” He exhaled in a sharp gust. “If the buildings are going to be built partially from stone, we provide those. From our mines. And our own houses.”

“Hah,” Izuna said. “You mean…”

“We break apart parts of the mines for stone that can be used for building,” Madara said. “If that’s not enough, we use the stone for our own houses. Every single structure in the village will have an Uchiha stone in its foundation.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Is that enough for you?”

Hah, Mito thought. So, Madara did have _some_ skill with political strategy, even if it was limited to dealing with his own clan.

“It’s going to be _hell _convincing the others to do that,” Izuna said.

Madara snorted. “Tell me about it,” he said. “There are plenty of people who aren’t happy about us moving out of the compound, no matter that the Senju will be doing the same.”

Izuna made a noise that had Mito instinctively narrowing her eyes, because she had been around him for three full weeks and she had never heard anything of the like from him.

“I wonder,” Izuna drawled, sidling up to his brother, “why you’re making that much of an effort.”

“What—” Madara started.

“You know he’s already your concubine, right?” Izuna drawled. “You don’t have to try _that_ hard to seduce him, you know. He’s already won.”

“That’s not—” 

“Nii-san, I’m not blind,” Izuna said, heaving an overly-exaggerated sigh. “I’ve seen how you look at him and touch him. _Everyone_ has. And don’t forget that first day when I saw you with your hand inside his tsumugi—” 

Madara _shrieked _loudly enough to scare the birds from their perches in the surrounding trees. “Shut up!” he hissed.

“There are bets!” Izuna was already laughing. “Everyone’s seriously wondering about when you’re going to break and just pin him against something—”

“Quiet, quiet, quiet!” Madara said, flying forward to slam his hand against his brother’s mouth. “Do you want me to _die_?”

“It’ll be a little death, Nii-san, not—

“The trees!” Madara whisper-shrieked. “Don’t say these things out loud! Can’t you see the trees around here?” 

“What does that—” Izuna yanked the hand away. “He’s already your concubine, Nii-san, what are you so—” 

“Hashirama will _kill_ me if he hears you talking like that about his little brother!” Madara said, arms pinwheeling frantically. “And Hashirama will know because there are trees around and he will kill me painfully, Izuna!”

That, Mito thought, was not exactly how mokuton worked. It would be incredibly convenient and useful if it was, but, unfortunately, it was not. Hashirama risked far too much by using trees as spies to do it on a regular basis.

She tried to hold onto that thought. She tried to not consider the other implications.

But her mind disobeyed her: it replayed, unbidden, the way Tobirama had tensed the moment Madara had laid a hand on him. She saw again the veil that declared her little brother’s status as a concubine, one owned by Madara, and thought about what it meant that Madara was so possessive that he had refused to let Tobirama’s birth clan look at a face they had known for far, far longer than he had been owned by Madara. The montsuki haori floated in front of her eyes, Uchiha crests displayed twice on Tobirama’s chest, further declaring Madara’s control over him.

Her breathing was very loud in her own ears. No.

Tobirama couldn’t be claimed to be innocent – he had been blooded even before she had met him – but there were some things that he— she had _laughed_ at his poleaxed expression— 

She had insisted on the clause in the peace agreement for a reason. Had Madara reneged on it? Or, worse still, had he found a way around it? 

_This will give them respite,_ Tobirama had said. _It will give them _peace_. What matter the discomforts that I might suffer through?_

It would be easy, so easy, for Madara to threaten breaking the peace agreement to get Tobirama’s verbal consent. And Tobirama would ignore his own comfort and lack of desire to give Madara what he sought if that was what would keep the peace. 

The Uchiha called him _besshitsu_. And Mito had meant to tease Tobirama when she had told him that a male concubine was for no purpose except sex, but…

But she should have known that Tobirama would take it to heart. So much that Madara might not even have needed to insinuate about breaking the peace to get Tobirama to submit to his attentions—

There could be other reasons, Mito thought wildly. Madara clearly cared enough about Tobirama that he refused to tear his family from him even when it threatened the Uchiha’s place in the new village. If he cared, then—

No, Mito thought. The fact that Madara coveted Tobirama might mean that he would assume that Tobirama’s acceptance of his touches meant that the desire was reciprocated.

“—get back for dinner,” Madara was saying. He and Izuna seemed to have finished with their scuffling.

“Just the two of us?” Izuna asked, flapping a hand at his sleeves to get the dirt out. 

“Yeah,” Madara nodded. “Tobirama is with Hashirama and his family, so it’ll just be the two of us. Unless you want to eat with Tsurugi and Hikaku? Tsurugi’s cooking, if you’re wondering.”

“Of course he is; Hikaku would just end up eating more ash than fish if he’s allowed near a fire,” Izuna snorted. “But nah, just the two of us would be fine.” He paused. “It’s been a while, Nii-san.”

There was something about his tone that Mito couldn’t identify.

“Hah,” Madara said. “It has, hasn’t it?”

He didn’t sound as if he had noticed anything wrong, so Mito dismissed the thought immediately. She had other things to consider.

Such as how to engineer a situation where she could speak to Madara alone, and where he wouldn’t be able to refuse answering her questions.

She had many, many questions. 

She found a chance sooner than she hoped: who knew that the Uchiha clan head would deign to patrol their campground himself? 

(If she was Hashirama, she would’ve been hurt that Madara would bother, because that implied that he didn’t trust the Senju. Mito, however, wasn’t nearly as idealistic: news of the coming village would be spreading by now from spies in the capital, and ten days was more than enough time for a group of skilled shinobi to start crossing into the borders of the Land of Fire.)

He had his gunbai in one hand and his kama in the other, both weapons near-glowing with the gleam of polished steel under the rare glimpses of the moon that could be seen through the heavy canopy of trees. Mito, still hidden by chakra control and seals, waited. 

It was when Madara was at the very edge of the campground that she reached out and deliberately snapped a single branch.

As expected, the noise drew Madara’s attention immediately: he spun around, and even the dim light was enough to reveal the blood-red of his Sharingan. Up above, Mito stood. She had changed out of her formal tomesode hours ago for a woollen half-komon and hakama, denoting her more as a kunoichi than a princess or clan head, and did not have her usual trailing sleeves. She elbowed the branches to rustle the leaves instead. 

Madara snarled, leaping up in a single second, and Mito _ran_.

She headed deeper into the forest, taking care to make only enough noise for Madara to hear. It would be inconvenient if anyone else was present for this conversation, after all.

Earlier in the day, she had found a clearing on the western side of the Naka a kilometre or so away from the campground and far away from the Uchiha compound that there would be plenty of time for her to prepare for a skirmish if one of the night guard came running at the feel of their clan head’s spiking chakra.

Landing in the clearing, Mito stopped. She waited until her chakra sense told her that Madara was close enough before she slammed a hand down.

Ink spiralled out from where her fingers touched soil, black surrounding her and trapping Madara within its depths when he, like any trained shinobi, instinctively tried to get away. Soft light emitted from the matrixes she had laid into the four cardinal directions, the rays drawing towards each other until they formed a square and rose up to half-length of the trees, and closed over their heads.

“_Mito_?”

Tiny flames burst into being at the corners of the barrier, giving just enough light to illuminate the look of wide-eyed shock on Madara’s face. 

“Uchiha-sama,” Mito greeted.

“What the fuck, I thought you were an intruder,” Madara said, rolling his eyes as he stepped closer, eyes darting around him. “Let me guess, this is a seal, and the thing hiding your presence so thoroughly is another seal?” 

“That is correct,” Mito smiled. “Don’t bother copying it, Uchiha-sama; seals require their users to have a very specific understanding of their mechanisms before they will work.”

“Uh huh,” Madara shrugged, the hands holding his weapons slowly lowering. “So, are you going to tell me why you led me in a merry chase?” 

As Mito watched, red faded back into a black darker than the ink already fading away. She waited until his hands started to loosen around his weapons before she struck.

Shunshin for those few steps forward until she was right in his face. A hand on his chest, seal blossoming on the palm, and Madara was thrown backwards with the force of a fuuton jutsu, weapons falling from his hands and breath driven out of him as he hit the one tree she had allowed into the barrier. Before he could react – Mito could see his Sharingan coming back to life – she changed the seal and shoved it into his clothes, ink sprawling out from her fingertips—

And Madara choked as his haori, tsumugi, hakama and nagajuban all tightened at the same time, threads unravelling to form ropes: one across his chest, pinning his arms to his side; one around his legs, forcing him to his knees; and the last around his throat, threatening to strangle the breath out of him.

“What are you—” Madara said through gritted teeth, Sharingan eyes spinning into Mangekyou.

Mito shifted the hand to his chest to one shoulder, and Madara shuddered as ink snuck underneath his clothes to crawl over his skin, each tendril lingering at his tenketsu points until there was no way he could access chakra. He could still feel it, of course, but he was as good as an untrained civilian at this point without the ability to mould any of it.

“Well,” Madara said, head tipped up to meet her eyes as his own was forcefully changed back to black. “This is the most effective assassination attempt I’ve ever encountered. Props to you, really.”

Despite herself, Mito laughed. “I’m not trying to kill you, Uchiha-sama,” she said, giving him a pleasant smile. “This unworthy woman merely wishes to have a conversation.”

“If this is what you do for a conversation, I dread what you’d do if you actually want to kill me,” Madara said, voice very dry. “Though, I’m curious now: if you Uzumaki are all like this, why haven’t you taken over the Land of Fire yet?”

_Ah,_ Mito thought. It was only _Izuna_ who had thought she was wholly a Senju; Madara understood perfectly well the influence her birth clan and island had on her.

Withdrawing a fan from the sleeve of her half-komon, Mito snapped it open. She lowered herself until she was sitting in seiza in front of his kneeling form, and lowered her head. “The Uzumaki thanks you for your compliment, Uchiha-sama.”

“The gods save me,” Madara said, tipping his head up to the sky. “You are so fucking _annoying_ when you do that.”

“This unworthy woman is sorry for the frustration she has caused Uchiha-sama.”

“No you are not,” he rolled his eyes. “Come off it, Mito. What do you want to ask so badly?’

“She wonders if you remember a clause within the agreement that allowed for her little brother to be given to you as concubine.” She kept her eyes lowered and spoke only from behind the fan. 

“There were many clauses,” Madara said.

“Perhaps this unworthy woman might humbly illuminate, Uchiha-sama,” Mito replied. “She saw the way you touched her little brother this afternoon.”

Madara stared at her. “Oh,” he said. “You mean the one about no one being able to force Tobirama into physical intimacy?”

“Uchiha-sama is clever and quick to pick up this unworthy woman’s meaning,” Mito said.

He was quiet for long moments before he slumped against the tree, shoulders lowering from their tense position. “This,” he sighed, “is _not_ how I thought I’d die.”

“This unworthy woman doesn’t understand Uchiha-sama’s meaning.”

“You think that I raped him,” Madara said, his black eyes boring into her forehead. “And there is nothing I can say in my defence, because you probably won’t believe anything that comes out of my mouth about it.” 

Mito snapped her fan closed, and tossed it in the same direction as his dropped gunbai and kama. “Try me,” she demanded.

_Now_ Madara was the one not meeting her eyes, his gaze fixed stubbornly onto the canopy overhead even though, Mito suspected, it made the rope around his throat press into skin. “I have a bone to pick with you,” he said. “You _and_ Hashirama, the bastard.” When Mito didn’t say a word, Madara sighed.

“Why did you let Tobirama offer himself as a concubine,” he said slowly, “when he knows absolutely nothing about sex?”

In her veins, Mito’s blood turned to ice. “You—” 

“I didn’t have a chance to break the clause,” he said. “He threw himself at me.”

“Tobirama wouldn’t—” 

“See?” Madara tilted his chin back down. If he had use of his hands, Mito thought, he would have used one to wave in her direction. “You won’t believe _anything_ I say about this.” One corner of his lips curved upwards. “I don’t need chakra sense to know that you’re pissed. And, honestly, I’m kind of glad for it.”

Now _Mito_ was confused. “What?”

“I’m starting to think,” Madara said, “that the Senju runs by the rule of sending people to do things that they _could_ without ever thinking if they _should_ do it.”

Her confusion deepened, because— well, how _else_ could they judge the suitability of a shinobi for a mission? It was enough common sense that the Uzumaki had also used the same principle: Mito had been chosen as Hashirama’s bride because she was the closest in age to him in comparison to her father’s two other daughters.

Taking a deep breath, she tried to take control of the conversation back. “This unworthy woman wonders,” she said slowly, “if Uchiha-sama understands the rationale behind the inclusion of the clause.”

Madara blinked. “How am I to know what’s in your mind?”

“Oh?” Mito raised an eyebrow. “Do you think that my husband would not be concerned with his brother being assaulted?”

“Hashirama implied in his letters that he sees no issue with giving his _sixteen-year-old brother_,” there was a strange emphasis on the age, “to me as a concubine.”

Of course her husband wouldn’t: sixteen was different from thirteen, and Hashirama had heard plenty of his cousins whispering about their visits to brothels and such when they had reached that particular age.

“Also,” Madara continued, “that’s a woman’s concern.”

Mito’s vision flashed red. When it faded, she realised that her hand was once more on his chest.

“Is,” she snaked her fingers beneath rope and cloth, parting both until she could scrape her nails over his bare chest, “that so?”

She heard more than saw the hitch in Madara’s breathing, and smiled. At the same time, she sent a thread of chakra into the suppression seals, changing them very slightly.

Just as she expected, his eyes shifted to red, and the three tomoes of the Sharingan morphed almost immediately to the spinning pinwheel of his Mangekyou.

“I’ve heard,” Mito said softly, her thumb caressing his skin, “that the Sharingan turns on by itself when an Uchiha feels that his life is in danger.” The slightest scrape of her nail terribly close to his nipple. “Do you believe that right now, Uchiha-sama?”

“Get your hands off me—”

“Surely not, for this is merely a woman’s concern, isn’t it?” Rising slightly, Mito pushed him until his legs were fully bent, heels touching his ass. Then, with her other hand on the ground, she crawled forward until she could straddle his lap. “What danger can there be here, Madara-sama—” 

“_Mito—_” Madara snarled.__  
  
The hand on the ground cupped his cheek. “It will be such a pity,” Mito crooned, “if the peace agreement is threatened because you killed the wife of the Senju clan head, isn’t it?” Her lips twitched upwards. “You might explain to my husband, of course, but… hm, who do you think he will imagine to be at fault in such a situation, Uchiha-sama?”

Madara’s breath hitched again.

“Who do you _want_ him to think of as the perpetrator?”

A trail of blood trickled down from the side of Madara’s mouth; he had bitten through his lip. Mito stared straight into his Mangekyou, taking in the slow spins of the pinwheel. If it was not so deadly, she thought, it might be beautiful—

Mito gasped, falling backwards onto the ground as her breathing cut off for the briefest of moments. Pain burst in her throat, sparks of red creeping into her vision—

Did Madara just— did he _headbutt her in the throat_?

“I have,” Madara said, his breathing shorted out, “only _so much fucking patience—_” He cut off himself off. As Mito scrambled back to sit, he smacked the back of his own head against the tree.

“Don’t,” he bit out, “fucking touch me ever again.” 

His eyes were closed, and his breathing was awfully ragged. Mito stared at him, lips pressing into a line because the anger had faded as quickly as it had come, and what was left was—

Reaching out, she withdrew the seals. First the chakra suppressors, then the one on his clothes. She braced herself.

But instead of attacking her like she had expected him to, Madara merely raised his hands and dug the heels into his eyes. Mito opened her mouth, and then closed it. 

“I am,” she tried, “very sorry.”

Madara didn’t answer her. As Mito watched, unable to look away away, his chest heaved as red started seeping down his cheeks. They smelled like blood. They looked like tears.

She could think of nothing to say. 

Suddenly, the barrier around them shuddered. Mito’s eyes darted towards it, staring as it shifted, _changed_, and— there was only one person in the world who knew how to do that. Only one person who would even know that it was there.

“Aneue,” Tobirama’s voice rang out, “Anija is whining for you. And have you seen— _Madara_?”

Mito stared at Tobirama rushed forward, the montsuki haori he was _still _wearing nearly whipping her in the face. Coming to a sudden stop in front of Madara, he tossed the hat and veil to the ground, and practically fell to his knees in front of the other man.

“Madara,” he whispered. “Is that blood?”

“I’m fine,” Madara said, and pulled his hands away from his face. “I thought you wanted more time with—” whatever he was about to say ended with a splutter because Tobirama’s hands were on his cheeks, tipping his face up.

Tobirama was_ touching him_.

“Your _eyes_,” Tobirama hissed.

“Wait, can you not—” Madara’s arms flailed as he was shoved back until his ass landed on the ground, and then Tobirama was _straddling him_ and his hands were on Madara’s face. No, on his _eyes_, and there was a familiar green glow, and Tobirama’s lips were but an inch from Madara’s, and Madara’s hands were coming to his waist to steady him and Tobirama was _allowing_ it.

“A few hours,” Tobirama practically snarled. “I leave you alone for a _few hours_ and you do this to yourself, you _idiot_—”

“I miss the times when you actually respected me,” Madara said. It sounded like a grumble.

“It is this lowly concubine’s humble opinion_,_” Tobirama snarked, “that you are an unrepentantly _stupid_. He might be wrong, of course, but all evidence points to it being the case, so he urges _goshujin-sama_,” he might have drawled out the term of address, but it still meant _lord husband_; Mito’s eyebrows hiked up before she could stop herself, “to take it into account.” 

“Ah, I get it now,” Madara said, sounding more than a little beleaguered. “You learned _that_ from Mito.”

Tobirama started, clearly having forgotten her presence. He didn’t whirl around to stare at her as Hashirama would have; his attention was entirely on Madara’s face, thumbs right below those now-black eyes. But his shoulders went stiff.

Mito’s hands rose to her mouth, covering it. _Oh_.

He hadn’t been flinching in response to Madara’s touch. He had been flinching because Madara had touched him in front of Hashirama, in front of _her_, and Tobirama had been…

_Embarrassed_. Even now, Mito could see the slightest flush of pink creeping up the back of his neck, barely visible beneath the haori’s collar and the spikes of white hair. Tobirama had been terribly self-conscious of Madara touching him only when the two of them were in front of witnesses, and that could only be because—

Tobirama liked it. Tobirama liked _him_.

It was obvious from the way Tobirama was practically in his lap, in how he wasn’t and didn’t even seem to think about shying away from those hands practically encircling his waist. It was in how he had reached out to touch Madara when he first came in, how he had abandoned his very purpose for coming into the barrier the very moment he had realised that Madara was in pain.

Mito had misunderstood. She had misunderstood so completely and utterly.

“There,” Tobirama was telling Madara, clearly having decided to ignore both what his husband – not merely his lord, but his _husband, _the man he had willingly married – had said and Mito’s presence. “Though you should sleep.”

“You do remember that I have patrols to do, right?” Madara said. His hands had shifted, one to Tobirama’s shoulder and the other to curl around the nape of his neck, covering the flush from Mito’s view. Tobirama didn’t even react. “I don’t get to sleep until two hours before dawn.”

“I’ll do your patrols,” Tobirama said, clearly having no intention from moving from Madara’s lap while they argued. “I’ll be better at it, anyway; my range is greater than yours.”

Madara made a frustrated noise. “That’s not— I assigned myself the patrols, and it won’t be fair for the others on duty if I just take myself out of it!”

“Like you said,” Tobirama argued back, “you assigned yourself the patrols. Just take another shift in a few days to make up for this one.”

Mito had to bite her own lip so she didn’t give in to the urge to laugh. They reminded her of— well, of herself and Hashirama, though she had never argued against her husband quite like this. Especially not where others could witness.

“You,” Madara enunciated, “are so incredibly annoying.” He grabbed Tobirama’s cheeks and shook his head from side to side. 

“Strong words from a man who still has not won an argument against me,” Tobirama said.

Mito pressed her hand harder against her mouth. Tobirama’s words were muffled because Madara was squashing his cheeks with his hands and Tobirama was _letting it happen_ and she had never once seen her brother-in-law so undignified. So… 

Young.

“I will one day,” Madara said, “mark my words.” And then he pressed Tobirama’s nose with a thumb. Tobirama still didn’t punch him. Or even push him away.

He didn’t even allow _Hashirama_ these liberties.

No, Mito thought. Tobirama didn’t just _like_ Madara. To allow for such things to be done to him, to have forgotten Mito’s presence so utterly despite his chakra sense being strong enough to notice her presence despite the seal she had used and her sitting right here… 

For a man as focused and as capable of multi-tasking as Tobirama, it said a great deal. Especially given that Tobirama had only been Madara’s concubine for the past month-and-some, and Madara had spent the majority of that time away.

Mito could only wonder if Tobirama was aware of the implications. If either of them was.

“We better get back,” Madara sighed. “I’ve neglected patrol enough already, and Hikaku is going to give me _looks _again.”

Tobirama snorted, clearly understanding the implications of those words in ways that Mito didn’t. He slid off Madara’s lap like he had practice doing so, and climbed back onto his feet. Mito waited until Madara was standing as well before she shifted until she was kneeling, and touched her forehead to the ground.

“I,” she said, voice loud enough to draw both Madara and Tobirama’s attention back to her, “sincerely apologise for my actions.” When Madara said nothing, she took a deep breath and continued, “To show the sincerity of my apology, I offer any and all seals within my personal arsenal to you, Uchiha-sama.”

“Hn,” Madara said. “The Uchiha didn’t ask for scrolls of sealing knowledge, though, and I know every clan guards their jutsus carefully.”

“Uzumaki Mito does not offer on behalf of Uzushio,” Mito said, “but herself.” She lifted her head but kept her eyes to the ground. “All the seals you have witnessed tonight, Uchiha-sama, are her own invention.”

For some reason, that made Madara bark a laugh. “I suppose that I was lucky that you really weren’t trying to kill me,” he said. “Very well, Mito. I take you up on your offer.” She could feel his gaze boring the top of her head, so she tilted his chin up to meet his eyes.

They were black, and continued being so as Madara said, “And I ask that whatever seals within your personal arsenal,” she did deserve the mocking twist he had put into those words, she supposed, “that you have given Tobirama to be made accessible to not only me, but any member of my clan. After all,” his hand slipped around Tobirama’s shoulders, fingers curling over one bicep. 

“He is an Uchiha.”

“Of course,” Mito inclined her head. She understood Madara’s other meaning well enough: Hashirama had been right; he _did_ see Tobirama as family. 

“Aneue,” Tobirama said, and Mito wondered if it was a show of trust to Madara that Tobirama wasn’t even attempting to meet her eyes. “It will be difficult for Madara to understand the seals I know without at least some foundational knowledge. May I have permission to share that with him as well?”

Mito hesitated. The Uzumaki wouldn’t agree: they guarded the foundational scrolls so jealousy that not even Tobirama was allowed access to them until he showed himself capable to understanding seals even without them. Though Mito might be Senju-wed, she was still Uzumaki-born, and so was obliged to obey the dictates of her birth clan; no matter how much and how long she suspected she would be haunted by the sight of Madara’s face, half-hidden by his own hands that couldn’t conceal the trails of blood smearing his cheeks, she could not disobey.

Tobirama understood that perfectly. He had seen through just how much Mito’s offer to teach Madara was worth, and he had thrown his own weight behind it: Mito’s father wouldn’t protest for long if he knew that it was _Tobirama_ who asked.

For the first time, Tobirama had made use of the pedestal that he had been placed on unwillingly by the Uzumaki, and he had done it for Madara’ sake.

Taking a long breath, Mito touched her forehead to the ground again. “As much as you deem necessary,” she said.

“Oh, for—” Madara made an impatient sound. “Will you _get up_ already? It’s unnatural to see you like that.” 

Winter-hardened soil crunched underneath his sandals, but Mito moved even faster. Half-bent over to pick up his weapons, Madara paused when he realised that she was suddenly in front of him. Mito met his eyes. After a moment, he nodded.

Picking up the gunbai with one hand on the handle and the other on the tip of the fan, Mito lowered herself once more to her knees. Her head bowed as she held the weapon above it.

Madara picked it up with one hand, fingers wrapping around the handle precisely an inch from where she had held it, and slammed the tip she had touched down with enough force to send cracks spiralling through the soil. A warning.

Mito did not speak. Instead, she stood and repeated the motions with his kama.

He took the chain she had held and threw it over his shoulder, and the curved blade of the weapon met the ground as well. Another warning.

But he had allowed her to present them. He had _waited_ for her to do so. She might be warned against ever doing it again, but he had allowed her to apologise. It might be a bristly and terribly rude form of acceptance, but it was one, nonetheless.

She wasn’t foolish enough to think that she was forgiven yet, but… it was more generous than she could have imagined. More than what she would have allowed, if their positions had been reversed.

How much was it because Madara didn’t want to endanger the peace? How much was it because of whatever Madara felt towards Tobirama? How much could it be credited to his own sense of decency?

Something for her to consider and watch for in the days to come.

“Am I,” Tobirama said dryly, fingers closed loosely around his hat, “allowed to know what has happened here?”

“Talking,” Madara answered shortly before Mito could even formulate a response. “That’s all.”

“So,” Tobirama yanked the hat on and neatened the veil so that it once again obscured his face. “It _was _about me.”

“That’s quite some self-absorption you have there,” Madara said, somehow making verbal the roll of his eyes. “And shouldn’t you be heading to patrol? Since you’re taking over me.”

“I _am_,” Tobirama said. “My chakra sense is stretched from the Uchiha compound to the Senju’s.”

Still with her head lowered and knees bent, Mito blinked. That wasn’t nearly the whole of his range, of course, but the easy way that he had spoken of his abilities was… unexpected. 

Madara snorted. “Forgive me for implying that patrolling might involve walking around,” he said. 

“Aneue,” Tobirama called. “Aren’t you coming along?”

Lifting her head, Mito forced her chakra to give him an impression of a smile. “I must take care of this barrier, Tobirama,” she said, keeping her voice light. “I will see you in the morn.”

Hesitating for a moment, Tobirama nodded. Then he turned back to Madara and continued the argument as if he had never departed from it: “Ah, yes, walking around in the dark is incredibly useful for _noticing_ the presence of intruders. My thanks for the reminder, Madara.” 

Snorting, Madara stuck an elbow out. “It might surprise you, but lanterns exist.”

“Isn’t that counterintuitive?” Tobirama asked, hand already in the crook of Madara’s arm as they started to walk. “Intruders will be able to see the light, and avoid it.” 

Mito watched them go, folding her hands over her chest. It didn’t seem like Madara had realised, or had been told, about Tobirama’s near-blindness.

What did it say of their relationship, she wondered, that Tobirama would allow Madara to touch him so freely, but not tell him of something so fundamental to his own being? What did it mean that he would reach out to Madara, and yet feel self-conscious about being witnessed doing so?

She had no answers. But there is one thing she was very certain of: she had been wrong. 

And for once in a very long time, she was glad for it. Her pride mattered less than the fact that Tobirama was safe. He was with Madara, and he was safe.

A talk with Touka was required, Mito thought. If the Uchiha did not need to be manipulated by an illusion of equal standing into a position of lower power than the Senju, then effort needed to be made to ensure that the Senju would be amenable to standing on almost-equal level with the Uchiha. Of sharing credit with them for the creation of a new dynasty.

_Stones_, Madara had said. She could work with that.

She would have to, anyway: Madara might have taken the Senju’s offer of Tobirama at face value, likely believing that Hashirama had somehow run roughshod over his clan’s objections, but Uchiha Izuna wasn’t nearly as blind as his brother. 

Maybe, she thought, it wasn’t only the Uchiha who had to change.

** _END ARC ONE: WILDFIRE, HEARTH FIRE_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, looking at Konoha: So… where’s the Uchiha contribution in this goddamned village? I see nothing but the police force, and that’s only from Tobirama’s time onwards. Why does anyone let Hashirama do _anything_ with political implications unsupervised? 
> 
> My characterisation of Mito is based on the fact that she looked at the oldest and most powerful bijuu and thought, probably in the space of a few minutes, that she could seal it within herself, succeeded, and thrived. See, Kishimoto is very much a Japanese _man_, and his views of women are coloured by that (see: Sakura). I’m keeping the Japanese part but, as it’s probably really obvious by now, I’m showing how there doesn’t need to be a conflict between being a Yamato Nadeshiko and being terrifying, vicious, and deadly. 
> 
> That’s Mito in a nutshell: the picture-perfect ideal of a Japanese wife in wartime. Look up the story for Inahime – and her confrontation with her father- and brother-in-law – for a real life, period-appropriate example. 
> 
> Also, this is the end of the first arc. The next chapter is going to have a pretty big timeskip of nearly a year. :3


	11. the sanbi takes a swim

** _ARC TWO: GIVEN STRENGTH AND PERMISSION_ **

Seated on top of the cliff that his older brother and Hashirama had once climbed in their youth, the same cliff where that huge chakra monster had lounged while he and Tobirama had their first proper conversation away from the battlefield, Izuna looked down at the burgeoning village.

The Uchiha had arrived first, using controlled katons to burn away the trees until all that remained was ash that the Senju, using their fuuton, gathered and then swept up into ceramic jugs. Those would be kept in storage until their current compounds were cleared of both inhabitants and buildings, and the land that still legally belonged to them could be used as farmlands for civilians to whom the village would offer protection in return for half of their harvest. It was necessary, Izuna had argued, because then the village would be closer to self-sufficiency without having to rely on outside food sources.

After the forest had been cleared, a few more dotons from both Uchiha and Senju had marked out trails that would eventually become streets, demarcating the administrative building, planned academy, shopping districts, training grounds, and residences. Hashirama had then taken a walk around the entire area, and wherever he passed, rough-hewn wooden houses sprouted from the remnants of burnt trees. On the same day, the Uchiha had started bringing in what would become the foundation stones of the houses from their mines.

It had been Mito who had convinced Hashirama that using Uchiha stones was necessary, Izuna remembered, and Mito again who had calmed him down and told him that building a village over months and years instead of days and weeks meant that the village could last for centuries instead of mere decades. 

Izuna wondered why she had sided with the Uchiha on this. Mito was an Uzumaki by blood and a Senju by marriage, and Izuna knew far too well just how much his clan owed both of hers. She had every right to deny them any enduring mark of their contribution, and yet she hadn’t.

Even now, months after the actual building had started, Izuna did not know the answer. He hadn’t been thinking particularly hard, either, because an image kept popping up in his head: Hashirama’s sideways glance when Mito said _centuries_. A look towards his brother. 

The Senju had dressed Tobirama in the white purity of a hitobashira, one who had selflessly given up their life to ensure the safety and security of his people; to create a better future that he himself would never have a chance to enjoy. 

But those fears hadn’t come to pass, had they? The shape of the village’s interior had been made according to Tobirama’s plans, and the irrigation channels underneath the soil had been his as well. He hadn’t contained himself with infrastructure: the architecture of every house had Tobirama’s hands in it as well, for he had drawn up plans for stone tunnels underneath wooden floorboards that would allow every room to be heated by the smoke of a single kitchen’s hearth. Plans, Izuna knew, that would make his and Madara’s efforts to warm every Uchiha household with their katon to be entirely unnecessary.

A hitobashira’s name was never recorded, for his body lying among a castle’s foundation stones served as his mark of immortality for as long as the building stood. But, looking down at the village that still remained unnamed, Izuna could see Tobirama’s marks everywhere. More than even Hashirama’s.

Far more than any Uchiha’s.

Letting out a long breath, Izuna shook his head and stood. He took another glance down at the village before he leaned forward. Gravity pulled him down, and he followed it, channelling chakra onto the bottoms of his sandal-clad feet as he ran down the side of the cliff. He kept running even when he reached the bottom, his breaths coming faster and deeper as he darted past the unpaved streets towards the centre of the village.

The administrative building – to be named after the village’s leader once they found a title and a candidate – had been drawn to be the tallest among all others in the area, such that standing on the rooftop would allow for a full view of every corner of the village. But, right now, it was nothing but a squat mokuton-made structure. 

Standing in front of it, Izuna recalled grimly the look on the Senju elders’ faces when Mito, Touka and Hashirama had all thrown their collective weights behind Madara’s insistence that the administrative building to be built last according to Uchiha tradition. Their displeasure had been so obvious that Izuna hadn’t even needed his Sharingan to see it, and it had answered a few questions he had about the reason why the Senju had even agreed to the village in the first place.

(He had never been convinced by Madara’s shrugging suggestion that Hashirama had simply overridden his clan’s desires by sheer force of will and charisma. If Hashirama had a bad habit of overlooking the faults in Madara’s character, Madara had a tendency to brush over Hashirama’s incapacities.

It really made Izuna wonder how this village would have been built if he, Tobirama, Mito, and Touka weren’t here to make sure that the two of them didn’t end up digging themselves into holes that they would never recover from. Or, worse, holes that the future generations would have to climb out of without even knowing how they were buried in the first place.)

Plucking a few leaves from the doorframe, he knocked. He didn’t bother waiting before he let himself inside. And froze.

Finding Hashirama within the sitting room of the building was of no surprise – if he wasn’t walking around the village teary-eyed and sniffling about his dream coming true, he could be found here; it really made Izuna wonder if he ever bothered going back to his own compound – and neither was Tobirama’s presence. Hashirama had taken every chance he had since the two clans had come together to have his brother at his side at every opportunity. And creating even more by dragging him around by the arm whenever he was allowed.

No, the surprise was what they were _doing_.

Hashirama was seated in seiza, hands flat on either sides of his hips, and entirely motionless in a way that Izuna had never seen him. And Tobirama was straddling him, knees but an inch from Hashirama’s hands, and there was a green glow on his fingers as he practically jabbed them into Hashirama’s eyes.

“Is it time already?” Tobirama asked. He didn’t look away from his older brother’s face.

“Uh,” Izuna said, blinking rapidly. “I’m pretty sure Hikaku is already waiting for us at the gates.”

“Give me a few moments,” Tobirama said. “Close your eyes, Anija.” Hashirama did so, and Tobirama hummed contemplatively. Then he did _something_, and—

Were Hashirama’s eyes starting to _bleed_?

“What—” Izuna croaked out. “What are you two _doing_?”

“No idea,” Hashirama said, sounding perfectly cheerful as blood trailed down his cheeks from the insides of his eyes. “I don’t understand a whit of sealing theory—”

“Don’t _move_, Anija!”

“But since you’re going to Uzushio with Tobirama,” Hashirama continued, sounding entirely unconcerned even though Tobirama was holding his head still with both hands and his thumbs seemed to be_ gouging his eyes out_, “you can ask him to explain to you!” He paused, and Izuna somehow got the sense that he would’ve cocked his head if he was allowed to move.

“Or, well, ask one of the Uzumaki. They are pretty protective about their sealing stuff.”

Before Izuna could even think to reply, Tobirama hummed under his breath and flung himself away from his older brother. He grabbed one of the scattered scrolls on the chabudai, unrolled it, and started scribbling with a speed that explained the atrocity that was his handwriting. 

Though, why the _hell_ was his nose but an inch from the paper? Was he really concentrating that hard?

“Hey, what time is it?” Hashirama asked, looking at him. Izuna’s eyes twitched in sympathy pain, though… hah, the bleeding had stopped.

“Nine in the morning,” Izuna answered, still boggling as Hashirama swiped his sleeve over his face.

“Ah, shit, I’m going to be late!” Hashirama started flapping his hands. Then his eyes went wide – a horrific sight because both of his sclera were _entirely red_. “Tobirama!” he whined, whirling to his brother. “I messed up! Help!”

He shoved his wrists forward. Was he— was he more concerned about having stained his clothes than the fact that he had been bleeding from his eyes?

Without even looking up, Tobirama tilted his index finger away from his brush. A coil of water came out of nowhere and seeped into Hashirama’s sleeve. A moment later, it whipped itself back out, now stained with red, and Tobirama sent it flying out of the ranma and, presumably, into the ground outside.

“How many times do I need to tell you that washcloths exist for a reason, Anija?” Tobirama scolded without pausing in his scribbling. “Or that you shouldn’t wear silk if you don’t want to stain it?”

“You’re so mean to me,” Hashirama sighed. “Is that what you want me to remember you of when you’ll be gone for months, Tobirama? Do you want to go into danger thinking that the last words you said to your beloved Anija is a scolding?”

“If I die on this trip, I will regret not having scolded you more,” Tobirama said, stabbing the brush back into its stand. He frowned at the scroll before his finger twitched again, small beads of water rose from the paper as the ink dried in an instant. They went out of the ranma, too.

“You know,” Izuna said dryly, “if you two need more time…”

“No, I’m ready,” Tobirama told him, already pulling out another scroll from his sleeve. He placed it below the chabudai and then slammed his hand down on the chakra-embedded paper, and everything vanished. “We should leave.”

“Are you—” Izuna blinked. “Are you bringing the table along…?”

“Travelling to Uzushio takes a week, and might be longer now that I have you and Hikaku with me,” Tobirama told him, already stomping around the room and picking up assorted scrolls that he tossed into a cloth knapsack. “That’s too much time to waste not working.” 

“That,” Izuna said slowly, “doesn’t answer my question.” 

“I need a flat surface so my handwriting is legible to people other than myself,” Tobirama shrugged. 

“There was one time when Tobirama wrote me a letter that I thought was in code,” Hashirama chirped, “and I spent so much time trying to decipher it.” He roared a laugh. “Turns out it was just his handwriting!”

Izuna didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want to see red surrounding dark irises, but ingrained manners had him already turning.

Luckily, Hashirama wasn’t facing him, instead staring downwards. As Izuna watched, a chabudai grew from the floor, and when Hashirama nudged it playfully with one finger, it broke off from the boards and rocked back and forth as if by its own will. Then, with another poke, Hashirama made a small bonsai grow from the centre before he sat back, grinning and cooing at the tiny branches.__  
  
Izuna had seen how terrifying Hashirama’s mokuton and Tobirama’s suiton could be on the battlefield, and he had seen, too, just how easily they used those same abilities on the most casual and mundane of chores. 

It had been nearly a year, and the contrast was _still_ incredibly jarring, and he knew it was the same for his other clansmen. To them, it was akin to using Susano’o for chopping trees, or Amaterasu for cooking.

_Efficient_, Tobirama had always said. _A thousand skills_, the Senju’s very surname declared. _Weird as fuck_, was Izuna’s personal opinion.

“Don’t blame me for your own idiocy, Anija,” Tobirama huffed. 

Hashirama looked up, and Izuna braced himself. But— his sclera was white again. The blood was gone, and given that he had wiped his face clean, it seemed that he had never bled at all.

What the fuck? Izuna had heard from Madara just how frustrating Hashirama’s abilities to heal from injuries was, but he didn’t think that it was this— this _quick_.

Was there any way that the Uchiha could’ve won the war at all? Was there any way in which _anyone_ could have defeated _Hashirama_? 

“—code sometimes, Tobirama,” Hashirama was saying. “You can’t blame me for thinking that you did write in it?”

“I can and I do,” Tobirama said, slinging the knapsack across one shoulder. He stopped in front of Izuna, blinked at him once, and then dropped it and practically ran down one of the hallways leading away from the sitting room.

“He forgot something,” Hashirama explained unnecessarily. “Sorry to have made you wait, Izuna, we really didn’t think we would take this long. Can you pass Hikaku my apologies, too?”

“Sure,” Izuna said distractedly. Because Tobirama had already came back, shrugging on something that made a lump grow in Izuna’s throat.

When Tobirama had returned from the talks on the Naka with the white fur that he had always worn in battle, Shiomi had practically pounced on him. It was her careful, neat stitches that had attached the fur to the collar of Madara’s montsuki haori, and Tobirama had worn that every single day except for the times he had it washed, and Izuna had heard Komaki and Suriko shaking their heads about how Tobirama didn’t seem to trust them with the thing.

It was only when summer had fully descended that Tobirama had given up the heavy silk and fur.

But it was here again, the Uchiha crests standing out stark amidst shimmering black silk, the white halves perfectly matching the pristine white fur encircling Tobirama’s neck. Every time Tobirama had worn it, it was a reminder to the Uchiha that though he had given up his Senju surname, he was _still _the Senju’s White Demon. That his identity and his accomplishments had remained untouched.

It had been Madara’s idea. Izuna averted his eyes.

“Is Hikaku waiting for us at the gates?” Tobirama might have noticed his avoidance, but, like always, he said nothing about it. 

“He should be,” Izuna nodded. “I’ll meet you there after I get my things.”

Giving him a short nod, Tobirama opened the door. Izuna took the chance to slip through it first, because he could see out of the corner of his eye that Hashirama was making to lunge. He closed the door behind him just in time to hear Tobirama’s yell as he was slammed against wood by his elder brother’s exuberant affection.

The planned Uchiha compound within the village was but a few minutes’ walk west from the administrative centre; the planned Senju compound was equidistant, but to the east. Another thing the Senju elders had pursed their lips about.

Madara was standing in the heart of the compound, arms crossed as he oversaw the building of houses. He turned his head even before Izuna could call a greeting, and Izuna found his breath knocked out of him by an oversized storage scroll before Madara wrapped his arms around him and lifted him off of his feet.

“Stay safe,” his older brother murmured into his hair. “I don’t want to send you, but…”

“It’ll be insulting to the Uzumaki if anyone other than the clan heir and the third most powerful of the clan accompany Tobirama, especially since this is the first time he goes after the agreement has been made,” Izuna recited. He shook his head. “I know, Nii-san. _I_ came up with the plan.”

“Brat,” Madara huffed, putting him back down to the ground. Izuna took the chance to drop the storage scroll.

Their clansmen continued working around them, already used to affection among the two brothers of the main house. “But you _have_ to be careful,” Madara continued, ignoring the glances and smiles sent their way. “We don’t know much about Uzushio and the Uzumaki, but if Mito is any indication…” He trailed off.

Something had happened between Madara and Mito, Izuna knew. His brother spoke to her just fine during the planning meetings, but he always made sure to put at least two people – most often Hashirama and Tobirama – between himself and her. Though that might not be much of an indication, the fact that Mito had become almost _solicitous _towards the Uchiha rang loud warning bells.

Once the village was built, Izuna would confront her about it. Not until then, because he needed Mito to continue working for the Uchiha’s benefit. But once his clan had scorched enough marks upon the village as undeniable proof that they were one of the founders and should be respected as such…

Izuna had always been willing to hide in his brother’s overlarge shadow, working with hints and details and subterfuge, because that had always been his place as the second heir. But if it was to protect his brother, he would willingly step out into the light and show just what being ‘second-best to Madara’ _really_ meant.

“There’s one more thing I need to ask of you,” Madara said, black eyes boring into Izuna’s.

“Don’t tell me,” Izuna drawled. “Take care of Tobirama?”

“Yeah,” Madara’s smile was sheepish, which eased the rising ache in Izuna’s chest somewhat. “You know how he is, Izuna; he’d forget to eat and sleep if he thinks that there are more important things for him to do and no one’s there to remind him of basic human functions.”

Izuna considered telling his brother of what he had just seen: if Tobirama was willing to hurt his own brother, to practically dig his thumbs into his eyes and make him bleed, then what wouldn’t he be willing to do to Izuna’s brother if Madara ever crossed him? 

Once, he had been sure that Tobirama wouldn’t ever do anything against any of the Uchiha if he came to their compound. And he _hadn’t_, but now, Izuna wasn’t sure that would continue.

He hadn’t been sure for _months_.

“Hikaku is bringing one of my falcons,” Madara continued, completely unaware of the thoughts running through Izuna’s mind. “He’ll send Fuyume back if anything happens, and I’ll wrangle Uzushio’s location from Mito and find my way there if I must.”

“Why?” Izuna blinked. “My crows can serve as messengers just fine.”

“I know, but…” Madara shook his head, pulling away as he dragged a hand through his messy hair. “I have a bad feeling about this. It’s…” he hesitated. “Do you remember that thing I felt in the capital?”

“The furutsubaki-no-rei?” Carefully keeping his voice level, Izuna cocked his head to the side. “I thought that we agreed that you most likely imagined it, Nii-san.” What else could it have been, after all? Things had been so tense at the capital, and Madara had been so tired because of Tobirama, that it really wasn’t any surprise that he had started hallucinating threats where they weren’t any.

“But I—” Madara started. After a moment, he sighed. “You’re most likely right, Izuna, but it can’t hurt to be careful.” 

“Nii-san,” Izuna closed a hand around his arm. “Talk to me.”

Madara closed his eyes. “I keep thinking that I feel it, alright?” he said. “Like… around here.”

“The village?”

“Not just the village.” Madara’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “_Here_.”

Izuna’s eyes went wide. “The _compound_?”

“Yeah,” Madara nodded. “It comes and goes, never for more than a few seconds, but I felt it. Or I thought I felt it.” He scrubbed his nose with a hand. “I don’t know any more.”

“Are you _sure_ it’s not because Tobirama’s been keeping you up?” Izuna asked, teasing a little.

“I haven’t been sleeping badly since Tobirama has started shielding his presence whenever he uses chakra before I’m awake,” Madara said, gaze far away. Westwards, Izuna noted; where Tobirama was. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“Or to Tobirama, right?” Izuna arched an eyebrow. His brother was really too tense.

“Any of you,” Madara insisted. “Even Hikaku.” His attention turned back to Izuna, hands coming up to close around his shoulders and shaking him a little. “Be _careful_, Izuna; even if the dark presence has been my imagination, you’re going to be on an island that’s constantly in danger of being drowned by typhoons. That are plenty of reasons for me to be worried.”

“I promise to be careful,” Izuna said, gripping Madara’s wrists tightly. “I’ll make sure that Hikaku and Tobirama are as well, and I’ll look out for them.” He tried for a wide smile to put his brother at ease. “Don’t worry so much, Nii-san. You’d look terrible with white hair.”

Madara huffed out a soft laugh, but Izuna didn’t even have the time to let his smile gain a triumphant edge before his brother cupped his face and knocked their foreheads together lightly. “Don’t be too much of a little shit in Uzushio,” he said. “Not until they’ve gotten used to you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Izuna rolled his eyes. “And you don’t run into too much trouble while you’re here, alright? With Hikaku and I gone, only Tsurugi and Shiomi are left to save your ass, and there’s only so much they can do.” When Madara only let out another soft chuckle in reply, Izuna hesitated.

“Come with me to the gates,” he said. “You can say goodbye to Tobirama there, too.” 

“Already did this morning,” Madara mumbled. He shook his head a little before pulling away, and his smile was crooked as he turned his gaze westward again. “Besides, if I go… I’ll end up leaving with you three, and leaving Hashirama in charge of the village all by himself would be a terrible idea.”

Izuna snorted. “It _would_ be,” he said. He smacked Madara’s arm lightly. “Make sure that you two have come up with a name by the time we get back, yeah? It’s getting tiring to keep thinking of it as ‘the village.’”

“You’re just lazy,” Madara snorted. Then, with another lingering glance at Izuna, he stepped away, arms falling back to his side.

Reaching down, Izuna picked up the storage scroll of his things and slung it over his shoulders until it sat at the small of his back. He squeezed his brother’s wrist, Sharingan activating to record into perfect memory Madara’s small smile in return, before he nodded.

And shunshin’d to the gates.

“I’ve heard that arashi no shihaisha-sama is now the concubine of your clan head,” one of the Uzumaki said.

“And you’re the Uchiha clan head’s brother, aren’t you, Izuna-san?” Another one added.

Pasting on a smile, Izuna inclined his head. He kept his hands still on his lap as he said, “Yes. That is why Tobirama,” it might not be necessary to emphasise the name so much, but the slight tremor that went through the shoulders of both men in front of him made it worth it, “is now an Uchiha.”

Whatever they were going to reply was lost as the door to the dining hall opened. Tray-carrying servants streamed in, lining themselves up against the walls. There were more than ten of them, all with red hair, and all dressed in elaborate silk kimono with white pearls stitched into their obis. 

Ever since Izuna had stepped into the residence of Uzushio Prince a little more than an hour ago, he hadn’t seen a single person without red hair. Maybe there were a few dark heads on the streets they had passed, but Izuna could only catch fleeting glances.

He knew from questioning Tobirama that Uzushio was a tiny island – barely fifty miles across and exactly thirty from top to bottom – but it didn’t make _any_ sense for there only be a single clan to inhabit it. Izuna might not have much knowledge about genetics or other such sciences, but he had enough to know for certain that when blood was too similar for too many generations, the entire line would grow sickly and be in the danger of dying out.

People might whisper that the Uchiha all looked the same, but Izuna was clan heir: he knew _exactly_ the number of marriages his clansmen had with people who were not born Uchiha. The Uchiha simply had a long and unyielding law of never marrying out: one could only become an Uchiha; one could not _stop_ being an Uchiha.

It might seem an untenable policy, but up until Dad’s youth, the Uchiha had enough money and social standing to ensure that not even their women had their names struck from the clan registries, instead bringing their husbands’ names in.

Colour flashed at the corner of his eye. Izuna blinked, restraining himself from shaking his head to loosen his thoughts. He had been distracted more and more often these past months, his mind turning back to his clan as if the uchiwa fan had become the fulcrum upon which the world spun. Which, while rather accurate, was dangerous when he needed to pay attention to the outside world for the good of said clan.

Letting out a controlled exhale, Izuna nodded to his red-haired, clearly Uzumaki server. She averted her eyes, hands folding on top of her lap as she bowed her head low and then retreated.

Izuna watched her go, and chased back his previous thoughts: he was sure, somehow, that the Uzumaki were hiding those not of their clan, or even those of their clan but without their distinctive marks, away from being seen by outsiders.

But why? They were the ruling clan of Uzushio, but anyone with a mind could tell that they couldn’t be the only inhabitants of the island. What was the _point_ of pretending that they were?

While thinking, his eyes wandered, and landed in front of him. All thoughts of Uzusho’s internal politics fled his head as he _stared_.

The tray he had been given was full of expensive seafood that he had rarely seen, much less tasted: there was the expected fatty tuna and scallops and oysters, of course, but there was also swordfish, pufferfish, and even sea urchin. Izuna swallowed hard; Uzushio was surrounded by the sea, but so were the coastal cities of the Land of Fire, and the Land of Water as well, and he had never seen such decadence easily displayed.

His fingers itched for his chopsticks, but an occasion like this meant that _someone_ had to begin eating first. Izuna scanned the room, and realised that everyone’s eyes were fixed on—

Tobirama had been ushered away from Izuna and Hikaku the moment they had stepped into this dining hall, and had been given the place right beside the Uzushio Prince. As Izuna watched, eyes widening even further, his Uzumaki server slid to his knees beside him. Instead of sliding the tray onto the placemat like they had done to literally everyone else, including their ruler, he lowered his head and held it up.

Nearly twenty pairs of eyes were on Tobirama as his gaze ran over the tray. It was, Izuna realised, different from the others’ around him. Instead of slices of expensive fish – so fresh that Izuna couldn’t even breathe a hint of their scent despite how much of it was in the room – Tobirama’s tray contained only rice, miso soup, a bowl of wakame and katsuobushi, and a pot of what was likely dashi. Tobirama nodded.

The server slid the tray onto the placemat. Then, with his hands folding a diamond, he touched his forehead to the tatami before withdrawing and standing up. At that moment, Izuna finally had a good look at his face. And he recognised him in an instant.

Uzumaki Taji. 

They had a man who was likely the head diplomat of the clan, given how much authority he had over the extremely expensive contract, bring Tobirama food like he was nothing but a _servant_. No— Uzumaki Taji had placed the food in front of Tobirama as if it was—

An offering.

Slowly, Tobirama picked up his chopsticks. Everyone was still watching him, practically boring holes into his form as he lifted his bowl, closed wood around some rice, and placed it between his mouth. His lips closed. Izuna could _feel_ breaths being held around the room. Then Tobirama swallowed and put his chopsticks back down.

Just like that, the tension went out of the room, the shift of it so sudden that Izuna barely noticed Uzushio’s Prince lifting his own chopsticks, or the Uzumaki around him starting to eat.

Izuna had once thought of the title the Uzushio used for his brother’s concubine was akin to that used for Susano’o-no-mikoto. Now he knew that it wasn’t just akin, but _exactly like_. 

They were treating Tobirama as if he was a god. They watched him eat as if terrified that he would reject their food. They placed him on such a high pedestal that even their _ruler_ would not eat before Tobirama did.

Izuna would bet his sword that the raised platform in the front of the room was empty because Tobirama had rejected that seat; that Uzushio’s Prince sat along the same columns as his clansmen because he didn’t dare to sit on a higher place as their _arashi no shihaisha-sama_.

Despite how much a part of him didn’t want to, Izuna _knew_ Tobirama. He could read the tension in his shoulders, and the careful and deliberate way he ate his food, and knew from everything that he was seeing that Tobirama _hated_ being treated like this. 

He couldn’t see why Tobirama could hate being treated well. Hadn’t he used the same tactics to win over Izuna’s clansmen, making himself indispensable to them? Wasn’t he doing the same with the village, making sure that every part of it was marked by him and every person who walked upon the streets he designed would be beholden to him?

Picking up a piece of fatty tuna, Izuna dipped it in the soy sauce and ate it. The fat melted on his tongue immediately, and he closed his eyes to savour the taste.

It didn’t matter whether Tobirama liked it or not, Izuna decided, because _he_ certainly did. Especially when the treatment meant that he got to receive the privileges he deserved for having to leave his brother to escort Tobirama here. 

With that settled, he set to fully enjoying his fish. 

More than half of his platter had been cleared – he tried to eat as slowly as he could, he honestly did – when a clap resounded in the front of the room. Izuna turned his head to see that Uzushio’s Prince – he _really _needed to learn his name – had stood, his white-streaked red hair swaying as he walked to the centre of the room.

He slid his chopsticks out of his mouth and placed them back upon their stand.

“Tonight, we welcome arashi no shihaisha-sama back to Uzushio.” Shifting his body to face Tobirama, Uzushio’s Prince bowed until his back was parallel to the floor. “We express our gratitude to arashi no shihaisha-sama for the service he gives to Uzushio.”

Tobirama remained seated, merely dipping his head in return to the Prince’s bow. “I thank you for your hospitality, Hayase-sama.” 

_Omae_. Tobirama had returned to using the rude pronoun of _omae _that he had given up along with his Senju surname for the politer _kimi, _and he was using it for a _Prince_. And the Prince was _letting him_. And he addressed the Prince by his _name_. Which was lucky, because now Izuna had it, but—

Had Izuna _ever_ heard any Uzumaki address Tobirama by name? Had any of them ever looked at Tobirama and thought him a person instead of, of some avatar of Susano’o?

“We welcome,” Izuna was startled out of his thoughts by sharp brown eyes suddenly landing on him, “the Uchiha companions of arashi no shihaisha-sama. We hope that the journey here had not been difficult, and that you will enjoy your stay.”

Rocking back on his heels, Izuna stood. Beside him, Hikaku did the same. “To dine with Your Highness the Prince of Uzushio is an honour that we of the Uchiha had not expected,” he said. On cue, Hikaku knelt back down, and touched his forehead to the ground. “We hope that our presence will not be of any trouble to you, and we thank you for your hospitality.” He bowed low enough to be able to see only the tatami beneath his feet.

“Please rise, Uchiha Izuna-san, Uchiha Hikaku-san,” Uzumaki Hayase said, waving a hand. “In Uzudhio, there is no need for such formal ceremony.”

“Your Highness is generous,” Izuna said, straightening. “May I present the gift of the Uchiha to Uzushio?”

Nodding, Uzumaki Hayase folded his hands into his sleeves. Hikaku passed Izuna the small pouch he had gone all the way to the Uchiha compound to collect, and Izuna stepped forward. 

Twenty steel hairpins fell out into his hand. “These are plain gifts,” Izuna said. “But the iron ore were taken from Uchiha mines,” Izuna said, “melted and mixed with ash from trees grown beside the Naka River and tended by Uchiha hands, and smelted and hammered into shape by Uchiha blacksmiths using skills we have honed over centuries.” 

Mindful of the Prince’s words, he did not kneel and hold his hands up, instead bowing at a forty-five degrees angle as he pulled open the knot. “We hope that Your Highness is pleased with our small offering,” he said.

Izuna had angled his head such that he could still Uzumaki Hayase’s face as he looked at the pins. It was mostly blank, but there was a trace of surprise in his eyes that made it difficult for Izuna to stifle his smile.

He remembered the steel pins that Mito had asked of the Uchiha before their trip to the daimyo. He might not be entirely sure about what it was, especially when Tsurugi said that nothing had gone missing or unaccounted for in their compound during the time, but he knew it _was _significant. 

And besides, he had included all five major elements in the gift – iron for lightning, water and earth from the trees, and wind and fire from the forging – along with Uchiha history. Not to mention that nothing of the pins themselves could be attributed to the payment that the Uzumaki had given and would be giving them for Tobirama.

There was no way that the Uchiha could match Uzushio in terms of wealth and opulence, and they would be fools to try. Instead, their gift had to show their _sincerity_.

“A thoughtful gift indeed, Uchiha Izuna-sama,” Uzumaki Hayase said. Then, with a swift, smooth motion, he took one of the pins from Izuna’s outstretched hands, swept his hair up into a loose bun, and sank steel into the strands to hold the strands in place.

Handing the other pins to one of the other Uzumaki who had approached, Izuna bowed again. “The Uchiha thanks Your Highness for the honour,” he returned the formality, and retreated back to his seat and folded into a seiza.

It had been a good idea to dissuade Madara from coming, and insist that he came instead.

With another brief glance to Tobirama to ensure that he was eating, Izuna went back to enjoying his fish. Every piece tasted even better when he knew he had deserved it.

After that first dinner, Izuna saw neither hide nor hair of Tobirama for three whole days.

It wasn’t entirely his fault: the Uzumaki clearly rarely had guests, and never one who were companions of a god’s avatar – or the god himself, Izuna wasn’t sure and didn’t want to ask – but they did their absolute best to entertain the two of them.

From all of his interactions with Mito, the few moments when he had to watch Uzumaki Taji at the Akimichi lands, and the dinner on the first day, Izuna had expected the Uzumaki to be a clan of sharp-eyed people who ran verbal circles around everyone else. He had expected a solemn population whose signature red hair was the only visible sign that their blood ran as red and hot as any human being.

He found instead a group of people as loud as the waterfalls that their Prince was named after, and as overwhelming as the typhoons and tsunamis they were so terrified of. They chattered a thousand questions about the Land of Fire, and peeled every scrap of information Izuna possessed about the capital. They asked him about Uchiha customs and traditions as they swept him and Hikaku away to explore their tiny island.

But all of their exuberance couldn’t entirely disguise the fact that Izuna _still _hadn’t talked to a single person without red hair. He had seen a few on the streets as he was escorted from place to place, but he was always whisked away before he could even call out to them. The same calculating manipulativeness that he had always seen in Mito was present in these people, too, except that they used cheer and curiosity instead of political symbolism like Mito did.

Then again, it just might be because there were more of them here, while Mito was outnumbered entirely by both Uchiha and Senju.

On the fourth day of their stay in Uzushio, Izuna woke up suddenly.

There was the barest slice of light coming from the ranma overhead, orange and red like the rising sun but shivering in ways he had never seen. But Izuna had been here long enough for him to know how the light worked during dawn hours, and he had never seen anything like this—

A scream.

He barely had time to throw on his tsumugi and slip into his sandals before he threw himself out of the room, running through the halls until he reached the main entrance of the Prince’s residence where he had been staying as honoured guest. Izuna gritted his teeth, pushing himself to run faster as more screams rang out, rapidly tying his hair back with the hairtie he always kept on his wrist. 

As stone-paved streets changed to sand, Izuna realised why the light looked so strange.

The sun was rising, but its orange and red light was refracted through a thick wall of water. No, that was not one of Tobirama’s water walls, that was—

_A tsunami. _Barely metres from the shore, and moving ever closer. The screams were coming from a few dark-haired non-Uzumaki, all of them shouting the same thing that Izuna couldn’t hear through the roar of the water and the pounding of his own heart, because—

He threw himself into a shunshin even before the thought finished, landing a few more metres closer to where the sand had retreated. His hands moved on automatic, and he blew out a massive fireball from between his lips, large and hot enough that his lips cracked and bled immediately, before he spun on his heel and threw his body over the small child standing, shocked to stillness, in the middle of the sand.

Fire met water, sizzling as it turned to mist. But the light was still shaking, the wave was still coming. Izuna’s hand flew through seals for a fuuton mindlessly even though he knew it wouldn’t work, not with a wave this large—

A roar, loud and terrifying and unlike any sound he had ever heard, rang out throughout the beach. Wind whipped through Izuna’s hair, his tail getting straight into his eyes. Izuna turned his head.

The wave had separated from the rest of the ocean, coiling into itself. Then, as Izuna watched, the very tip of the typhoon hit touched the water and started spinning faster, gaining in size with every turn, and sped _away_ from the shore to—

Smash straight into the next incoming wave.

Water sprayed. The ocean itself curved inward, parting in half until Izuna could see shells and rapidly-swimming fish amidst the rising walls. He barely had time to wonder just what that was for when another wave rolled in front the horizon, filling in the space that Tobirama – it had to be Tobirama – had just made. Then, the walls collapsed, the water rising and rising, a massive tidal wave forming and _retreating_ from the shoreline.

When it fell, it crashed right across the rising sun, seeming to drown the ball of orange-red light before the ocean flattened out again.

In the distance, a small wax-cloth ball bobbed on the water. Silence descended. 

Picking up the now-trembling child in his arms, Izuna half-ran, half-stumbled to hand him over to the adults looking anxiously at them before he headed for the white-haired figure still at the edge where beach faded into streets. Tobirama was bent over himself, gasping desperately for breath. When Izuna grabbed for his hands, his skin was freezing cold.

“The seals didn’t give a warning,” Tobirama panted out.

“What?”

“Seals,” Tobirama said. He waved a hand towards the cliffs that jutted out from either sides of the island. “They were supposed to give a warning when,” he stopped, having ran out of air, and dragged in a sharp breath, “a typhoon is coming.”

Izuna remembered Mito _summoning_ items from steel hairpins; remembered Uzushio’s reputation for seals. Of _course_ they would make something that would inform them of approaching danger, especially when they had to deal with typhoons for centuries before Tobirama was born.

“What does that mean?” he demanded.

“This is not a typhoon,” Tobirama told him. Then, before Izuna could reply, Tobirama tore out of his arms and started running towards the ocean. Izuna made to follow him, but before he could take a single step, he was jerked backwards with nearly enough force to send him sprawling.

“I remember the very first year that arashi no shihaisha-sama came to us.” Uzumaki Taji said, his hand a vice grip on Izuna’s arm and eyes fixed forward. “I was a child, barely older than he was.”

Ahead, Tobirama’s feet touched the ocean. It rose with every step he took, rising until he was standing on top of a tidal wave that seemed to grow larger as it went further away from them.

“It was as if Susano’o-no-mikoto realised that we had brought in one of his avatars, and he wanted to test us, for the typhoon that year was one of the worst in Uzushio’s recorded history.”

Tobirama _jumped_ just as the wave he had been riding slammed into the incoming one, water spraying out upwards and outwards. The Sharingan gave Izuna perfect vision, enough to catch his tiny figure as he landed on one of the splashes and the ocean rose up to meet him again.

“Part of the cliffs was ripped off by the typhoons, but arashi no shihaisha-sama stood on the beach and stared at it as it came.”

The next wave was big enough to swallow up the sun again. This time, it didn’t even have a chance to touch the one Tobirama was riding on, because the water split apart, forming a veritable army of water dragons that soared up into the skies. As the Sharingan spun, recording every moment, the magnificent lizards spread out and dove back into the ocean harmlessly.

“It would have torn through the entire island, leaving us with only wreckage that we would need years to rebuild from, but it didn’t even touch a single building. Arashi no shihaisha-sama turned it away from the shore.”

Tobirama’s hands were but tiny blurs as he moved through hand seals. Water rose up around him, an entire wall stretching from cliff to cliff, rising above their heads until the sun’s light trembled and trembled.

“Every single one of us watched as it spun upwards into the sky and dissipated into rain. As the droplets fell across the island, a million rainbows were born.”

Tobirama stood at the very top, rocking with the movements of the ocean like he was fish instead of man, and stayed there as wave upon wave upon wave crashed against his water wall. 

“His Highness wept at the sight, and said that he had never seen horrors turned into such beauty in his entire life.” Uzumaki Taji’s gaze was akin to a weight curling around Izuna’s neck.

“Do you see why we hold him in such high regard?” 

Izuna took a deep, rattling breath. He was no suiton user, but he had the Sharingan, and he could tell— “Do you regard him high enough to make chakra storage seals?”

Uzumaki Taji hesitated. “We have those, yes, but we did not—”

“_Get them_,” Izuna hissed, and tore himself out of the man’s grip.

He cared nothing for the story – he could _see_ Tobirama’s way with water right in front of him, and had fought him and his suiton for years, and had him in his own compound, his very own house. He had an older brother who fretted over Tobirama in a way that belied his stuttering denials about the depths of his care, and he knew, almost as well as Madara, Tobirama’s limits.

The next wave crashed through the water wall, shattering it. Tobirama’s body flew backwards from the force, and the stubborn bastard was still going through hand seals, dragons forming around him, spreading the water carried by the waves outwards so they would not harm the island.

But he was falling.

Izuna gritted his teeth, pushing himself even harder. Water sprayed over his head, soaking him to the bone, and whipped away from his body as he shifted from one shunshin to another. Another hundred metres, fifty, _ten_—

His arms wrapped around Tobirama’s chest right before he hit the water.

They slammed on the ocean’s surface, Izuna remembering at the last moment to spread chakra all over his back and shifting his grip so that Tobirama landed right on top of him. The bastard had grown another inch, so he was taller than Izuna now, but he was still skinny enough—

“What are you doing here?”

Tobirama loomed over him, two hands splayed by Izuna’s head and knees on either side of his hips to hold himself up so no part of them touched. His pallor was nearly whiter than his fur collar; Izuna could see pale purple veins at his jaw and neck. 

“You can’t use suiton,” Tobirama continued, frowning. “This is the ocean, you should know that your katon can’t work after—”

Izuna slapped a hand over his mouth and, for the sake of the efficiency that Tobirama was so fond of, shoved his chakra into his body.

“I could tell that you’re running out of chakra even from the shore,” he answered tartly. “I came here to make sure you don’t collapse from chakra exhaustion and fucking drown.” Tobirama kept glaring at him, and Izuna rolled his eyes. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, of _course_ I had my Sharingan on!”

“Why?” Muffled as he might be by Izuna’s hand, the question was still perfectly clear. “There’s nothing you—”

“Nii-san,” Izuna answered. Not entirely the truth, but he refused to admit to Tobirama that he had been worried as hell over him. He was an Uchiha; they didn’t _say _things like that. “He’d want to see what you want to do here. Since, you know, you’ll be spending two months of every year here.”

Tobirama closed his eyes. When Izuna cautiously pulled his hand away from his mouth, Tobirama didn’t speak. Maybe he couldn’t, because Izuna had shifted his hand to his chest, and was giving him even more chakra—

“Enough,” Tobirama rasped. “Stop.”

“Don’t make me turn my Sharingan on to check,” Izuna threatened. 

“I’ll be fine,” Tobirama said. “More importantly, I need to stop this.” He pulled out of Izuna’s grip before Izuna could even reply, getting to his feet. He was steady, at least.

“What the hell is happening?” Izuna asked. “If it’s a typhoon, then we should’ve seen some hints of it by now, right?” When Tobirama turned startled eyes on him, Izuna shrugged. “I ordered a few books from the coastal cities and read them before coming here.”

“It’s not a typhoon.” Well, that much was obvious, but what _was_—

Izuna’s mouth clicked shut when Tobirama shoved, of all things, a _kunai_ against his chest.

“Go back to the shore,” he told Izuna. “Hold onto that, and don’t let it go. Don’t drop it.”

Never taking orders well from anyone but his older brother, and even then he would protest, Izuna opened his mouth.

“Please, Izuna,” Tobirama said. His gaze met Izuna’s squarely even though his body was still turned towards the horizon. “I _need_ to solve this, and I can’t—” His shoulders lifted and then dropped. “It’s the ocean, and you don’t have suiton.”

“Yeah,” Izuna said. “Okay.” He reached out and brushed Tobirama’s arm lightly – only Madara could touch him without him flinching. “Listen, you better get back safe, alright? I don’t care if Uzushio calls you arashi no shihaisha-sama or whatever, and you think you have some sort of duty to them because of it. You’re _not_ dying on my watch.”

Tobirama’s eyes turned to the part of his arm where Izuna’s fingers touched. His throat bobbed. “I have to go,” he said, and then ran towards the horizon before Izuna could even reply.

Sighing, Izuna watched him go. Then he realised that standing in the middle of the ocean while tidal waves could come at any moment was a _really_ bad idea, and high-tailed it back to the shore.

Once his feet touched sand instead of water, he took a good look at the kunai Tobirama had given him. It looked exactly like any other kunai, except…

Were those _scribbles_ on the handle?

He had to be at least five kilometres away from the shore by now, Tobirama thought to himself, and less than a hundred metres away from where he could feel that huge presence that had been causing all of these waves. He threw his chakra out over the water from his feet, feeling for further waves…

None were incoming. Hopefully none _would_ come within the next ten minutes. Hopefully this would take only ten minutes.

Taking a deep breath, Tobirama dived into the ocean.

Creating a bubble of air around his head was instinct by now, but it took a bit more chakra control over the water around him to not be crushed by the pressure as he headed further into the depths. It was a good thing that he had never really needed his eyes to see, because he was starting to reach a level where the sunlight did not reach—

_There_!

He propelled himself forward, half swimming and half pushing the water out of the way. The giant chakra presence was starting to move again, and the tidal waves were made whenever—

A series of hand seals, water parted in front of him to move upwards. Further, wider, and he surrounded the chakra presence with a box of air in the depths of the ocean. He kicked thrice, just enough to break through one of the water walls, and landed in front of the… the _massive _creature in front of him.

It had felt like the thing whose stroll had led to him seeking out Izuna. But it wasn’t the same thing. Tobirama couldn’t exactly see its shape – it was far too dark – but it even _felt_ different. He cleared his throat.

“Hello.”

The thing had spun around to face him the moment he entered – if not for the box of air Tobirama had made, another tidal wave would be headed for Uzushio right now – and it was now peering at him with a single red eye. One that was bigger than Tobirama’s _head_. 

Silence. Tobirama reminded himself that the last gamble he had taken had paid off wonderfully, which meant that there was a possibility that this would work as well. If the Senju could be wrong for centuries about the Uchiha being fire demons, and if the Uchiha could put aside their hatred for the Senju enough to try to aid the one they once called white demon like Izuna had just had, there was no reason why a human’s instinctive fear towards a huge chakra monster couldn’t be wrong.

Izuna’s chakra, fire-hot and licking against his nerves even after it had settled into Tobirama’s coils. Izuna, who ran into the ocean while tidal waves were sweeping in because he was worried for Tobirama; who had done that even though there was that odd dark presence that sometimes hovered around him and turned his chakra sharp and sour.

Tobirama tilted his head slight to the side, and inhaled deeply. Madara’s scent and chakra had long faded from his haori, but there was enough symbolism in the weight of the silk across Tobirama’s shoulders to calm his blood.

Steady, _steady_—

“Are you talking to me?” 

It _spoke_. And the _boku_ pronoun that it had used… 

There was, he repeated to himself, no reason why this gamble wouldn’t work as well.

“Yes,” he nodded. “I’m sorry for disturbing you while you’re busy—”

Laughter rang out around the box of air. The red eye turned around from him, and wind whipped around Tobirama so hard that he raised his arms to protect his face like he would have in a desert. But it had been too long since he had visited the Land of Wind, and he had forgotten—

His feet swept out of him, and he dropped back into the ocean. Without his jutsu to control the water pressure, it was heavy enough to crush, and Tobirama scrambled to get himself up, holding onto the box of air by sheer will—

_Something_ curled around him, lifted him, and deposited him on the floor of the box.

“I’m sorry,” the giant chakra monster said, and it sounded _remorseful_. “I’ve forgotten that humans are tiny. It’s been a really long time since I’ve talked to one.”

Swiping water out of his eyes, Tobirama stared up to him. He meant to say something polite, he meant to thank the creature for saving him, but what came out of him was:

“There’s a lot of tiny humans just a little way away from here, and you’re going to drown them all.”

That huge red eye disappeared, and then appeared, and then disappeared— Was the creature _blinking_? In surprise? Like humans did?

“Here?” it asked. “People live _here_?”

“It’s called Uzushio,” Tobirama said helpfully. 

“But there are always typhoons,” it said. If it was human, Tobirama would think it was confused. “There shouldn’t be humans living here because there are typhoons.”

“The typhoons come only two months every year,” Tobirama pointed out reasonably. “And people have always lived in dangerous places. They’ve even settled on the slopes of volcanoes.”

“Volcanoes? _Really_?”

“Yes,” Tobirama nodded. He didn’t know where the conversation was going, much less to wrest it to the point he needed to make, but he could answer a question. “The soil there is fertile and good for crops.” He hesitated. “Are you here because you didn’t think that there are humans around?”

“I just wanted to _play_!” That was a whine. That was _definitely_ a whine. “I never get to play in the water like this, and I thought that no humans would live here because there are always typhoons, but now you tell me that humans live everywhere, so I won’t be able to play anywhere because they’ll find me and I don’t want to be found!”

Scratch whining, it had gone straight to wailing. Tobirama was reminded, in a very warped way, of Hashirama. And, like always when dealing with his elder brother, his mind started trying to figure out a solution that would give them what they both wanted.

“Over there,” Tobirama pointed. “If you follow the curve of the continent and head north by water for a few hundred kilometres, you’ll be in the coast of a country called the Land of Snow. From there, move west for a few hundred more kilometres. It’s empty ocean all the way. No human settlements.”

There would be ships, but they didn’t approach frequently and were definitely not _settlements_. He wasn’t _lying_.

The creature peered at him. “Really?”

“Really,” Tobirama nodded, meeting that red eye squarely. “No one will disturb your playing, then.” He hesitated for a moment. “And if you travel only by water, no one will be able to find you, either.”

“You found me,” the giant chakra monster said sulkily.

“No one else will be able to,” Tobirama told him honestly. “I’m the best sensor in the continent, meaning that I can feel your presence here, and I’m also the best suiton user ever born, which means I can come here,” he waved towards the oceanic depths around them, “to talk to you.” 

The red eye approached until all Tobirama could see was a sea of red iris and black pupil. He very carefully controlled his breathing so he didn’t start hyperventilating.

“I’ve never been close enough to humans to tell when they’re lying,” the creature said, sounding a bit doubtful. 

Holding up his hands, Tobirama tried for a placating tone as he said, “I don’t mean you any harm. I’m here because Uzushio is under my protection.” That was the simple explanation; he didn’t think a giant chakra presence without human contact could understand or care about things like _alliances_ and _contracts_. “I know that you don’t mean harm, but your play here is causing tidal waves that can drown everyone on the island.”

The red eye went _very_ wide. “Really? But I was just— I was just playing!” He sounded _upset_.

“You’re very big,” Tobirama reminded. “When something big moves in the water, the water forms big waves, and the currents bring them to the shore.” He had the sudden urge to try to pat the creature to comfort it – it really was like Hashirama – and so carefully held out a hand, telegraphing the movement.

He couldn’t really see it, but his chakra sense gave him the general shape. He couldn’t reach the top of what seemed like its head, but he could try for a cheek. So, he did.

Making a small noise, the creature moved. Was it… leaning towards the touch? Tobirama kept patting it.

“I know the open ocean is very far away from here,” Tobirama said. “But I really need you to go there. Not only so the humans under the protection won’t be harmed, but so that they won’t be angry and try to hurt you.” He hesitated. “They probably won’t succeed, but it won’t be very nice for you, either.”

“It’s never nice when humans try to chase me away,” the creature sighed. “That’s why I avoid them.”

Tobirama had figured that much, at least. He kept patting the creature’s cheek for a moment more before a thought struck him.

“Do you have a name?” he asked. “Mine’s Tobirama.”

“You want _my_ name?” It startled hard enough to jerk out of Tobirama’s reach. “You gave me _your_ name? It’s your _real_ name?”

Why were names so important to it? Was it a youkai? 

“Yes,” Tobirama nodded, because answering was more important than asking his own questions right now. “To all three questions.”

The creature was silent for a long moment. “Tobirama,” it said. Then the red eye lowered, as if it was dipping its head down. “I am Isobu.”

“Isobu,” Tobirama tested it out. “It is a good name.”

“My father gave me the name,” Isobu said, and there was something like wonder in his voice. “I haven’t heard any other human voice say it in centuries.”

Its father was a _human_— well, that meant that it couldn’t be an ‘it,’ could it? If Tobirama had to judge by its voice – assuming was rude, but asking it for its gender would be worse – he would say that Isobu was male. _Boku_ was used by young boys, too.

“A good name,” Tobirama repeated. “Isobu, would you—”

“Where is this Uzushio island that you’re talking about?” Isobu interrupted him.

“Five kilometres and some from here in that direction,” Tobirama answered automatically, pointing. “Why—” the rest of the answer was lost in a yelp as _something_ gripped him by the back of his haori, and he was tossed into the air. Tobirama nearly flailed before he landed on something that was surprisingly soft—

Isobu’s head. His skin was grey. Tobirama could see because Isobu had _risen from the water_ and he was heading right back to Uzushio with Tobirama riding on his _head_ and this was really, really bad, because Hayase was going to _freak_ and so would everyone else, and he couldn’t even imagine Izuna’s reaction when Tobirama came back riding a cliff-sized chakra creature— person— thing—

What _was _Isobu anyway?

He would research later. Right now, he just tried to hold on because whatever Isobu was, the way he walked on water was far, far worse than riding a tidal wave had ever been and if Tobirama didn’t focus, he was going to _fall_—

“I don’t appreciate your insinuations, Uchiha-sama,” Uzumaki Taji said stiffly. “Arashi no shihaisha-sama is extremely important to Uzushio; of course we will do everything we can to treat him well.”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Izuna opened his mouth to reply. Then he realised that the man wasn’t looking at him, instead staring, lips slowly parting, towards the horizon. He turned. Blinked. Turned on his Sharingan. And blinked again.

Yeah, his first glance wasn’t wrong. That was definitely a _massive monster_ headed straight towards them. It looked kind of like a turtle? If turtles were the size of several buildings put together. 

His Sharingan shifted into Mangekyou immediately – fuck Madara’s pleas about not using it too much, this was an emergency that practically screamed for Susano’o and Amaterasu – but before he could even take a step closer to the shoreline, the water around the monster _moved_.

Two water dragons rose up. Then, as if that wasn’t enough to announce Tobirama’s presence, they formed above his head into, of all things, _kanji_:

_Stop_.

Then it shifted:

_No harm_.

Another twist:

_Friend_.

Two more water dragons rose up, joining the previous two to form:

_Isobu_.

Izuna could see a spot of white on top of the monster’s grey head that was Tobirama’s hair and fur collar.

He took his eyes off Tobirama for three days and nothing happened. He left him alone for _fifteen minutes_ and he came back with a monster that apparently had a name. 

That was _it_. From now on, Tobirama was Madara’s responsibility. Izuna washed his hands off anything to do with the man. He was going _home_, whether to the village or the Uchiha compound, it didn’t matter, because his blood pressure could not withstand Tobirama.

Very, very valiantly, he resisted the urge to scream into his hands, failed, and ignored Uzumaki Taji’s askance glance.

While Izuna was busy with his crisis, the monster— _Isobu_ had reached the shore. It had crossed the entire length towards the horizon in minutes, because its feet were huge, and now it was standing at the shoreline and was it _bowing his head_?

“I’m sorry for causing you harm. I did not mean to. I was only playing in the water.”

Was it _speaking _in_ keigo?_

“There are always typhoons here, so I had thought there will be no humans. But you are here.” It cocked his head to the side. “I like playing here among the whirlpools. If I make sure to be careful and keep the typhoons away, will you let me play here?” 

Izuna’s brain spat a series of incoherent sputters at him. He comforted himself by the fact that the faces of every single Uzumaki and non-Uzumaki on the beach looked just as poleaxed.

“That’s not a good idea, Isobu.” That was _Tobirama’s_ voice. “Coming here is already bad enough, because now the humans will know that you’re here. Wanting to stay is worse, because you’re scaring everyone.”

His tone— Izuna had heard him speaking like that before. To _Hashirama_. When he thought that his older brother was being _stupid_.

“I told you where to go if you want to play without humans, Isobu,” Tobirama sighed the same way he would whenever he called Hashirama unreasonable. “You really should go, because humans might agree now, but they’ll be agreeing based on fear. That’s bad for everyone, because promises made on fear tended to not be kept.”

Isobu made a sound that was _exactly_ like what a small child blowing air between their lips to show their displeasure. It jerked its head.

Tobirama was thrown off his perch, flying through the air for a few moments before he somersaulted a few times and landed on the balls of his feet on the sand like a cat. Izuna turned his attention back to Isobu.

Oh, it was leaving. Did… did Tobirama just scold him into leaving? Izuna blinked.

“Did that just happen?” That wasn’t Uzumaki Taji’s voice. That was _Hikaku_. 

Where had he come from? Had he risen from the ground while Izuna was distracted? Had he been here the whole time and he just hadn’t noticed?

“Shintaku,” Uzumaki Taji breathed, pulling Izuna’s attention away from his clansman. “He is surely shintaku-sama.”

Izuna felt a flare of irritation rise within him, burning on the inside of his lungs. So, Uzushio wasn’t happy to merely worship Tobirama was their ruler of storms, but they wanted to give him a new title that meant _oracle of the gods_ as well? 

He looked at the kunai in his hand. While Tobirama was in the middle of the ocean, he had realised that scribbles on the handle were seals. Seals that the Uzumaki protected and told no one about, but which they had granted their treasured _arashi no shihaisha-sama_ the privilege to not only learn, but with enough depth to create new ones of his own.

What would they do next? Set up an altar to him?

“Izuna.” Tobirama was in front of him, one hand held out. His hair was plastered to his forehead, but his precious fur collar and montsuki haori were both dust dry. He had kept Madara’s gift in pristine condition even when taking a dive into the ocean, and he wore it even though it was summer and Uzushio’s weather was swelteringly hot and Izuna wished he would just _take it off_ so he wouldn’t have to see him in it—

Tobirama’s face was very close to his own. His eyes were very wide. As the world washed into red from the Sharingan, Izuna noticed a small line of even deeper red slowly, slowly trail down one corner of his mouth.

There was something hot washing over his hand.

He stumbled back. His eyes flickered down to his hand. His skin was drenched in red. Not the Sharingan. 

Blood.

Tobirama fell to his knees, one hand pressed over his own ribs. Red seeped from between his fingers. Izuna’s hand went slack, and the kunai fell to the ground. The cloth of the handle was soaked in the red. The scribbles had become indistinguishable.

Sounds of voices yelling. Chains wrapped around him, glowing by themselves as they forced him to his knees. But Izuna could only stare forward, his usually-quick mind entirely blank, watching as Uzumaki Taji threw one of Tobirama’s arms over his own shoulders and lifted him.

The roar in Izuna’s ears subsided enough for him to hear:

“—can’t trust anything he says.”

_You can’t trust the Uchiha_, Tobirama surely meant. But he was an Uchiha now as well, and he—

A hand slammed against his back. Fire spread from between his shoulder blades, covering his entire body. Red leeched from the world. The blue of the ocean was blindingly bright, white sparks reflecting the risen sun.

Another touch, this time to the back of his head, and everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that’s a Hiraishin kunai that Izuna had just used to stab Tobirama. Yes, I made Tobirama spit up blood and be carried in exactly the same way Izuna was in canon. Yes, he said something _very _similar to what Izuna does in canon. And _yes_, I did just end the chapter there. :D
> 
> I can’t update if you kill me, just saying. 
> 
> Isobu’s characterisation is taken entirely from the fact that one, he gets along with tiny boy Yagura, and two, he uses ‘boku,’ which is just used by young boys. It’s not like I have proper lines to use.
> 
> Translation notes: 1) Mito’s father’s title in Japanese is Uzu-no-ou-sama. “Ou” is usually translated to “King,” but I translated it to “Prince” in this instance because Uzushio is _tiny_. “Kingdom” in English implies a pretty sizeable territory; “principality” is much smaller. Think Monaco for an equivalent. (For the first time, English differentiates while Japanese doesn’t.)
> 
> 2) Shintaku in kanji is 神託, translated literally as “trusted of the gods.” It is an actual term for people and animals revered as oracles and seers of specific gods.


	12. curse of fire, will of hatred

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** This is not the chapter you want, but it is the chapter you need. :3
> 
> On a more serious note, detailed descriptions of abuse, attempts at infanticide, and patricide from the point-of-view of someone horribly traumatised since he was a child; depiction of how an entire clan are culpable to that abuse due to philosophy; and frequent and casual mentions of suicide. 
> 
> In other words, I finally explain the root of the Senju-Uchiha cultural divide, and East Asian culture as a whole. See the chapter title.

“Izuna’s parting words to me were that he wants us to have a name for the village by the time they get back,” Madara said.

Slumped face-first onto the chabudai, Hashirama groaned. “We’ll have to find something that’s both neutral and meaningful enough that it’ll please the daimyo, both of our clans, and the other clans that will eventually join us,” he whined. “Why is building a village so much _effort_?”

“To paraphrase your brother,” Madara drawled, “do you think that you can wave a hand and the village will pop up and everyone will trip over each other to join us?” He arched an eyebrow and sipped his tea when Hashirama pouted at him. “You know that’s not going to work, Hashirama.”

He wasn’t talking about the pout.

Despite the fact that they had been discussing the minutia of the village for the past hour, Hashirama realised that he wasn’t talking about that, either. Straightening, he ran both hands over his hair. “You’ve been waiting for a while,” he muttered.

“I’ve been waiting for you to stop running away,” Madara corrected. “Don’t think that I haven’t noticed.”

It hadn’t been particularly easy to tell – Madara had been distracted by ensuring that Tobirama settled properly into his clan, then by the dark presence he kept thinking he felt no matter how many times he tried to tell himself that it was merely his imagination. He had been trying to avoid Mito, too, because he couldn’t get out of his head the way she had barged into his space, disarmed him utterly with a few seals, and _touched_ him just to make a point. Given that Mito was almost always with her husband, Madara couldn’t exactly get Hashirama alone. 

And it wasn’t only Mito, either. Hashirama had surrounded himself with people these past few months – Tobirama, Touka, his clansmen, Izuna, and even Madara’s clansmen. The only times when Madara had gotten him alone was when they talked about the village, and those matters tended to be urgent enough that everything else had to be shoved aside. Then, the very moment they were done, Hashirama would rush off somewhere else.

But Madara had noticed. And he _would_ make Hashirama talk. The questions had been bothering him for long enough.

“I didn’t think you didn’t,” Hashirama said. “I _hoped_.” He tried for a smile, but Madara could tell when one didn’t reach his eyes by now. “It’s a different thing.”

Setting down his cup, Madara sighed. He looked at the man in front of him for a long moment, the man who used to be a boy he had risked everything just to meet by the riverbank to skip stones and train. The only person he could say honestly to have shared his childhood with, aside from his brother.

“You’ve changed, Hashirama,” he said softly. “The boy I met by the river wouldn’t have sacrificed his last little brother for peace, because he wanted peace for his little brother.” 

Hashirama tilted his head away, gaze skittering around the room before landing on the ranma above and behind Madara’s head. “You’re wrong, Madara,” Hashirama said, and there was an odd note in his voice that had Madara’s hand tighten on his cup. “I haven’t changed.” His lips curved up into one of his hollow smiles. “That boy never really existed, you see.”

Taking a deep breath, Madara let it out slowly. “What do you mean?”

“Do you know why you’re so important to me, Madara?” Hashirama asked. When Madara simply blinked at him, unspeaking, Hashirama laughed.

“Eight years passed between our meetings by the river and the peace agreement between our clans,” Hashirama said, folding his hands together on top of the chabudai and staring straight ahead into nothing. “Throughout those eight years, I’ve never once stopped thinking of you as my friend. I’ve never stopped thinking that we can change the world together, just the two of us.”

If not for the fact that Madara had witnessed how Mito and Hashirama acted around each other, Madara thought wryly to himself, he would have thought that this was a love confession. Hell, even _with_ that, it sounded like a love confession.

“But I was selfish.” Hashirama’s voice had gone very soft, as if speaking in a whisper would help make the words easier to dismiss. “I wasn’t really looking at _you_, Madara. I…” He trailed off, closing his eyes.

“What do you see, Hashirama?” Madara prompted. “You said that I’m important to you because I taught you what friendship means, but that’s not true, is it?” He leaned forward, eyes boring into the other man’s form. “What do you see when you look at me?”

Hashirama’s shoulders shook just once as he said, “The one person in the world who will let me pretend to be who I want to be.”

Letting out a heavy sigh, Madara picked up the teapot. He refilled both of their cups, breathed out a small katon to light the candle in the teapot’s stand, and put it back. “You’re a spoiled bastard, you know,” he said. 

“If not for you, Mito would’ve become this village’s leader, or even the ruler of the Uzushio, given how smart and damned good she is with politics. For you, Tobirama gave up his place in the Senju registries to take on a position he’s completely unsuited for.” He took a sip. “And even your cousin Touka – how many times has she run interference with your elders for you?”

When Hashirama didn’t say a word, Madara drained his tea. “Do you think I haven’t noticed that none of them even understand what peace mean? They’re only throwing all of themselves into this village because you want it.”

If Mito did, she wouldn’t have attacked Madara the way she had just to make a point. If Tobirama did, he wouldn’t be so obsessive about infrastructure and town planning. If Touka did, her fingers wouldn’t keep twitching minutely whenever she was around an Uchiha.

Izuna had once asked him what the Uchiha’s contribution to the village would be. On his return, Madara was going to look him dead in the eye and tell him: the desire for a future beyond a settlement that symbolised an endless stalemate. Because it seemed that none of the Senju had it; none of the Senju even understood how to want such a thing.

He refilled his own cup. “Do you want a handkerchief or something?”

Face still buried behind his hands, Hashirama shook his head. Madara drank his tea and wished he had something stronger. But he suspected that he needed to be entirely sober for this damned conversation. 

“I’m not saying that Izuna and my clan does nothing for me, because that’d be a lie,” Madara said. “But, Hashirama, why do you need me to let you pretend, when everyone who loves you is already doing their damned best to make your dreams come true?”

“But it’s so _difficult_,” Hashirama muttered. He tipped his head back. Madara blinked when he realised that Hashirama’s eyes were dry, and then realised that he really shouldn’t be surprised: Hashirama had only ever cried when he was in his dramatic fits, and those had never been real. He should’ve known: how many times had he complained that Hashirama had used to cry just to make him feel bad, and then laugh at him when he had tried to apologise?

“You’re right, Madara.” This time, Hashirama’s smile was much smaller than his usual foolish grin, but it _did_ reach his eyes. “I really should stop running away.” His hands wrapped around his cup, and he took a breath as if to brace himself. “May I ask you a favour?”

“Depends on what it is,” Madara said cautiously.

“Tell me a story about your family,” Hashirama said, looking away with his shoulders drawn up towards his ears. “Like you used to when we were kids.”

“That—” Madara spluttered. “I wasn’t telling you stories! I was _complaining_!” 

“Mm, I know,” Hashirama said, wrapping his hands around his teacup. “But they were good stories, nonetheless. Tell me one? It doesn’t have to be new. I just want to hear one from you again.”

Madara opened his mouth, about to refuse because he had no clue what Hashirama was getting at and he was so _tired_ of having to speak in circles around these Senju bastards, but then he took a closer look at Hashirama’s face. The corners were crinkled and the smile was real, true, but there were also shadows, dark and deep, tucked in those very sides, twisted into the upward turns of his mouth, and…

“Please?”

It hadn’t been Hashirama who had first sold Tobirama. It had been his father. And, now that Madara thought about it, Hashirama would talk endlessly about his brothers, but he had never once breathed a word about his parents. Hell, he didn’t even know Hashirama’s mother’s _name_. Or even if he and Tobirama were full-blooded brothers or technically half-brothers like he and Izuna.

“Alright,” Madara said. He stared down at his tea, searching his memories. Everything was there, of course, but he had to find one that wouldn’t make _him_ start crying when he told it. “Okay.”

Hashirama nodded encouragingly, putting an elbow on the chabudai and his head into his palm. Madara looked at him before he sighed, looking away to stare up to the ceiling.

“See, Izuna’s a little shit, has always been, and he’s _so _spoiled because he’s the baby of the family,” he started. “There was once when he was… mm, seven, and I was nine, and he started playing tricks on me. Only on me.” Because Madara was the only half-brother he could prank; Kushihiro, already twelve and therefore battle-ready, was too old to be touched. 

“I’d get buckets dropped on my head when I walk through the door, things drawn on my face when I’m sleeping, starch all over my clothes… And when I complained to Dad, he only laughed and told me that I deserved it for letting Izuna sneak up on me.”

“Mm,” Hashirama said. “I’ve heard this one before.”

“It’s probably one of the first things I’ve complained to you about,” Madara said, rolling his eyes. “Because it’s _so_ unfair. Did I tell you when Izuna finally got punished?” When Hashirama shook his head, Madara sighed. “I was right: he _was_ doing it because I wasn’t Mom’s biological son, and that’s what Dad punished him for. Not the pranks, not for targeting me, but because his reason was shit.”

“How did your father punish him?” Hashirama’s eyes were so bright.

“Izuna got a bunch of chores,” Madara shrugged. “I told Dad that it wasn’t enough, but Izuna was _miserable_ because he hated helping with laundry and cleaning the floors, and Dad told me that’s why he made Izuna do those things specifically.”

Looking at Hashirama again, “Is that enough for you?” 

Hashirama let out a long sigh. “I love your stories about your family,” he said, fingers linking and arms stretching out above his head. “And, you know, I will always remember the fact that your father actually asked you if you could defeat me during that confrontation at the river.”

Madara blinked. “What?”

“Butsuma would never have done that,” Hashirama said. Did he just— did he address his father by _name_, without honorifics whatsoever— 

Suddenly, Madara remembered the huge splotch on Hashirama’s letter right before he wrote _my father_.

“He never really asked any of us about our opinions of anything, really,” Hashirama continued, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Then, in that same casual tone and still with that small, lopsided smile, he said, “I murdered him, you know?”

“_What_?” Madara nearly shrieked. “But Senju Butsuma died of lung cancer—” 

That was why Dad had gone on his suicide mission: he had heard that the Senju clan head had died ignobly in bed, and he had refused to go the same way. Dad had wanted to die like a shinobi, fighting on his feet, and if the Senju or the Hagoromo or any of the other clans refused to give him a battlefield, then—

“Spring is a terribly dangerous season.” Madara had never thought his friend’s smile could look as terrifying as it did right now. “Pollen gets _everywhere_, not to mention tiny little seeds. You can just breathe in one by accident, and not even know it.”

“You—”

“It took me a while to hone my mokuton enough to make things grow slowly and without anyone noticing,” Hashirama told the wooden slats above. “Not even Tobirama. Even more difficult is trying to make the plant cells start growing _into_ tissue.”

Cancer, Madara thought wildly, was nothing but growth of unwanted cells where they shouldn’t be.

“Eventually, I figured it out.” Hashirama needed to stop. He needed to stop detailing every step of his _patricide _like that— “But it still took me a year to make that the little dandelion plants in Butsuma’s lungs grow until they were buried in the lung tissue, and another year for them to keep multiplying _inside_ the tissue until…” 

His smile widened, teeth glinting under the dim light streaming from the ranma. “Butsuma died while I was by his bedside, and he used his last, choking breaths to call me useless for crying and to demand that I destroy your clan.”

Hashirama, Madara remembered dully, was really good at pretending to cry. 

“You—” The breath rattling out of Madara made him wonder if that was how Senju Butsuma had sounded when _his son murdered him_. “You killed—”

“Mm,” Hashirama nodded. “I did. Only Mito knows. She helped with the chakra control.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Madara couldn’t stop himself from lunging forward. “_Why did you tell me?_”

He would have been more than happy to live in blissful ignorance.

“Because,” Hashirama was finally looking at him now, head forcibly turned by the death grip Madara had on his collar, “I need you to show me another way.” 

“Another way to do what?” Madara yelled. “Not kill your father? He’s already dead, you can’t bring him back—”

“Peace,” Hashirama said. His fingers dug into Madara’s fists on his collar, prying his fingers open one by one. Hashirama had always been terrifyingly strong, but Madara had always thought it was the mokuton, not his physical strength— “Or, well. A way to live, really, that’s not… Madara, I wouldn’t have even known that there was anything wrong with my family if not for you.”

“What do you—”

“Butsuma used to rape Mother while she was in the room next to us,” Hashirama told him in the same cold, flat tone he had been using since he had started talking about his father. “Tobirama and I heard it, Tobirama _felt_ it, and all the two of us could do was to try to make sure our twin younger brothers didn’t.” 

Madara’s arms dropped back to his sides. Tobirama felt— that terror Madara had felt when Tobirama had first kissed him those months ago—

“Mother killed herself with poison,” Hashirama kept going. “My last brother was stillborn, and people in the clan had been whispering about how she might be getting too old to have more children. So, she killed herself. I kept the doku zeri she had used in our backyard. It’s still growing there, among all of the seri.”

No wonder Hashirama never went back to his compound once the village started being built. No wonder—

“It’s not just Mother, but Mito, too.” Hashirama was _relentless_ and Madara wanted to beg for his dramatics because this toneless voice was absolutely frightening given what he was actually _saying_— “Butsuma once tried to beat Mito because she hadn’t gotten pregnant,” Hashirama continued. “It was a year after she married me, and we were both fourteen. It was only after I threatened to castrate myself and consign the mokuton to oblivion that he backed off.” 

“Gods above—” Madara shoved his hand over his mouth.

“Do you know what’s the worst thing?” Hashirama needed to stop talking, he needed to _stop_— “None of us knew it was wrong. I didn’t know until I met you. Mito had some idea, because she married in. But Tobirama still has no idea that Butsuma trying to drown him as a baby wasn’t how a father should treat his newborn son.”

Madara gagged hard, the bitterness of the tea he had just drank washing across the back of his throat.

“I know the Uchiha keep wondering why I am the way I am, but that’s because I met you, Madara. You showed me that there might be a few problems with how the Senju do things.”

“Please,” Madara choked out. He forced himself to look up, grabbing Hashirama by his collar again and pulling him in. “Stop talking. Please stop talking.” He stared into those blank brown eyes. “Hashirama, you need to cry. You really need to cry.”

“Why?” Those blank eyes… Even when Hashirama gave one of those false smiles, he had never looked this _dead_.

“You _need_ to cry,” Madara insisted, making his voice as firm and steely as he could. “I know you fake-cry all the time, but you just told me that your entire _life_ was horrifying, and it’s not just you, but your brother’s and your cousin’s and your wife’s since she married you. You need to cry.” He dug his hands into Hashirama’s hair and shook him. “I_ know_ you haven’t ever done it, but you have to try. You have to let yourself cry.” 

Hashirama’s face crumpled. He squeezed his eyes shut. Madara could see him trying to hold back the sobs, so he crushed Hashirama to his own shoulder and tightened his arms. When his friend started shaking, he hummed under his breath and rocked back and forth.

Like how Mom would do for him when he was still young enough to fit into her lap. Like Kushihiro would do for him when he was older. Like how he had held Izuna when Kushihiro had died, leaving only two brothers out of five.

Had _anyone_ ever done this for Hashirama? For Tobirama? How old was Hashirama when his mother killed herself? How old was he when he first started plotting how to murder his own father? Madara knew that Hashirama became clan head four years ago, when he was seventeen, but he had heard that it had taken Butsuma two years to die. Had he already been planning to commit patricide at fifteen? _Fourteen_?

“I wanted,” Hashirama stuttered out, “I wanted peace because I wanted Tobirama to have time to read. I wanted a village because then I can be, then we can—”

“Then you can?” Madara prompted.

“Not by death,” Hashirama shook his head rapidly. “I don’t want all of them to die. But I don’t want— I don’t want to be _Senju_ anymore, Madara. I want—” he gave another heaving sob.

“You want your clan to disappear,” Madara barely managed to force out. “You don’t want your clan to exist anymore.”

“There’s something _wrong_ with it,” Hashirama said, clutching at Madara’s sleeve. “There are parts that are horrible and parts that I think are okay, but they’re not— they’re not like the doku zeri hidden among the seri, you can’t just rip out the doku zeri and leave the rest of the garden untouched. It’s— it’s like the whole clan is the doku zeri itself, every part of it poisonous, and maybe you can use it for some things but—” 

Did Hashirama just use the instrument of his mother’s suicide as a _metaphor_ for his clan? Madara tried to concentrate.

“And it’s getting to me, Madara. It’s getting to _me_ and I can’t stop it, I thought if I killed Butsuma then everything would be okay, but it’s not, it’s not, because I’m turning into Butsuma, I’m going to become him, and I don’t want to become Butsuma, Madara, please— please, please—”

“Breathe,” Madara soothed. “Breathe, Hashirama. You’re not like your father. You’re not.”

“But I _am_,” Hashirama said, voice sharp like a whip turned upon himself. “Butsuma sold Tobirama and I did _the same thing_ and you just said it, you just said that the boy you met wouldn’t have sold his brother for peace but I did it, Madara, I _did it _and I can’t be that boy, I keep trying and trying but I’m not, I’m not, I’m _Butsuma_ and I don’t want to be, Madara, and—”

Madara tried to stroke his hair to calm him, but Hashirama’s breaths came rapidly and his words kept spilling out like he had kept them behind a dam for years and it had finally broken.

“They’ll do everything for me. They’ll let me do anything to them. They love me so they handed me their lives for me to use, and that’s the Senju way, Madara. The whole clan is a doku zeri and I can’t rip it out and it’s _infecting me_ and I’m going to become just like him and I keep trying and trying, he never smiled so I smile all the time but it’s _not working _and I’m going to _ruin _everything like Butsuma did and I’m going to drive Mito to her death and I don’t want to, Madara, I don’t want to but I don’t know how to stop it, I don’t know _how_—” 

Wrenching himself back, Madara punched Hashirama. Then, for good measure, he grabbed the teapot off the stand with his left hand, covered Hashirama’s eyes with his right, and flung the hot tea over his face and neck.

Hashirama went very still. His chest continued to move, the sounds of his breathing rapid and shallow.

“You’re hyperventilating,” Madara explained shortly. “Breathe with me, Hashirama. Focus on the pain, and breathe with me.”

Slowly, Hashirama nodded. Madara took a deep breath, deliberately loud, held it for four seconds, and let it out. It took Hashirama three breaths to start following him, and far longer minutes before his breathing evened out into some semblance of calm.

Madara carefully lowered his hand. As he expected, the scalds on Hashirama’s face and neck had already healed, but his _eyes_ were still blank. Madara waved his own reddening right hand in front of him, and saw the moment when Hashirama’s gaze snapped into focus, and he let that hand be grabbed.

A green glow emitted from Hashirama’s fingers as he clasped Madara’s hand between both of his own. Cool, soothing chakra seeped under his skin, easing the rising burn. Madara let out another long breath, this time entirely for his own benefit.

“Hashirama.” A nod. “What would your—” no, bad idea, “Senju Butsuma have done if someone had thrown tea in his face?”

“Depends on who.” Hashirama’s voice was back to being flat and dead.

“What if you—” Wait, he had a better idea. “What if Tobirama had done it?”

“He would’ve beat him for hours,” Hashirama said. “He’d make me watch, and make me heal Tobirama whenever he gets close enough to death, and then keep beating him. He’d say that he was helping me train my medical ninjutsu, and Tobirama would’ve believed him.”

Madara wished there was a way that he could revive a man just so he could burn him with Amaterasu. He had enough control over the black fire to make it such that Senju Butsuma would die excruciatingly slowly over seven days. 

Another breath.

“Are you going to do that to me?” Madara asked. “Are you going to force Izuna to come back to watch as you beat to me death?”

Slowly, Hashirama shook his head.

“You’re not your father, Hashirama,” Madara said, making his voice as gentle as he could. “Your first instinct is to heal me, not to hurt me. You’re not him, okay?” Awkwardly, he placed his hand on top of Hashirama’s head. “And I’ll help. I promise.”

Hashirama’s chin touched his chest. His hands dropped with dull thuds to the floor, and he closed his eyes. After a long, long moment, he nodded. 

Gods above, he looked so _young_. Madara knew that Hashirama was a couple of months older than him, but whatever damage he had received seemed to have shattered him, and whatever efforts he had made to put himself back together had obviously been extremely clumsy, so much so that Madara looked at him and wondered wryly if the old adage about kintsugi even applied.

There had been so many times when he had rolled his eyes at what he saw as Hashirama’s childishness, but he wondered—

_I have been told that I neither act nor look my age_, Tobirama had said. But there were moments, too, when he scrunched up his face whenever he was displeased, or when he puffed out his cheeks when annoyed, that made him seem younger than even sixteen. 

Little moments, little things, and now that Madara knew something about his and Hashirama’s childhood…

They had never been children, Madara realised, horrified. And neither had they been allowed to grow up. Instead, they were shoved over the ledge straight into adulthood, and their minds clutched desperately to whatever remnants they could have of the childhood that had been stolen from them. 

No wonder Hashirama clung so tightly to him. No wonder Hashirama refused to give up on the first friend he had ever made. The meetings he had with Madara were most likely the only times he’d had in his entire _life_ to be an actual _child_.

Madara might have shared parts of his childhood with Hashirama, but to Hashirama, Madara _was_ his childhood.

It was nearly enough to make him cry.

“Are you crying because of me?” 

Madara yelped, flailing backwards, because Hashirama’s face was suddenly _inches_ from his. 

“You _are_!” Hashirama crowed, and he was grinning again, eyes crinkled up at the corners to show that it was true. Then his hands were clasping Madara’s face, pulling him even closer as he stared into his eyes. “You _are _crying, Madara!”  
_  
_“I—” Madara spluttered. “Let me go, you— you— you _tree_!” He punched Hashirama hard on the shoulder.

Bursting out laughing, Hashirama leaned back. He scrubbed at his own face with his sleeve. When his arm lowered, he was still smiling. “You’re crying because of me,” he said, and there was a softness in his eyes that had Madara blinking. “I’m flattered, Madara.”

“It’s not just you,” Madara huffed. He grabbed the now-empty teapot and stood, moving to the shelves to escape Hashirama. As he rummaged through them to find the tin of tea leaves that they – or, well, probably Mito or maybe Tobirama – kept here, he said, “And why _wouldn’t_ I cry, given all that you just told me?”

“Is it really that upsetting?” When Madara turned his head back, Hashirama was staring at him, head cocked to the side like one of Izuna’s over-large crows.

“You just spent fifteen minutes getting my clothes soaked with your tears,” Madara flapped his free hand towards the shoulder of his tsumugi. “What do you _think_?” 

“Well, yeah, but I didn’t think other people would be upset over it,” Hashirama shrugged. “No one in the clan ever has.”

Madara froze. “No one—” A breath. “Wait. Don’t talk.” He grabbed the nearest tin and plucked open the lid to check. Sencha again; hn, it would do. Then, hurrying, he refilled the teapot from the bucket of clean water in the corner and sat back down to the chabudai.

“If I’m going to help you, you have to answer my questions,” he said. Hashirama nodded, lips pressed into a line as if to prove to Madara that he was being obedient by shutting up like he had been asked. “First thing, what do you want out of this peace, Hashirama?”

Hashirama made a vague wave towards his own mouth.

Rolling his eyes, Madara blew a small katon into the teapot’s stand. “When I say that you have to answer my questions, I implied that you can talk,” he said. “And you know that.”

“But it’s so easy to annoy you,” Hashirama said. “But okay, uh… I want Tobirama to have time to read anything he wants.” He nodded firmly. “Do you know that Butsuma used to make him earn new scrolls with missions? The only exceptions were—”

“If you keep talking about all the shit that Senju Butsuma did to you and your brother,” Madara said, keeping his voice level with effort, “we will get nowhere with this because I’m going to start researching on resurrection techniques so I can kill him again, and that would end up with me being kicked out of _my _clan.” Hashirama clicked his teeth together. 

“What do you want, Hashirama?”

Hashirama frowned. “I just said—” 

“Not what you want for Tobirama,” Madara interrupted. 

“Well,” Hashirama said slowly. “I once wanted peace so that Itama could have time to paint, and so Kawarama could have more time to spin his stories and more friends to drag into acting them out.” He shrugged again. “But those aren’t relevant anymore.”

“Hashirama,” Madara sighed, barely resisting the urge to rub his hands over his face. “Say that you get your peace and all of your brothers survived. So, Tobirama reads, Itama paints, Kawarama makes up stories.” Hashirama nodded rapidly, smile widening. “So… what are _you_ going to do?”

Slowly, Hashirama’s smile faded. A frown creased between his brows. “I…”

“What are you going to do, Hashirama?” Madara asked gently. “In this peace, what do you want to do?”

The frown deepened even further. “I… don’t know.”

“What do you do aside from your clan head duties and training?” he prompted.

“Spending time with Mito and Tobirama and Touka,” Hashirama replied immediately. “Nowadays, I get to talk to you and Izuna, too, and I’m getting some of your clansmen used enough to me that I can hang out with them—”

“Alone,” Madara interrupted him. “What do you do alone?”

“I, uh, I like to gamble when I go to the city sometimes?” Hashirama asked, looking really confused now.

Letting out a sharp breath, Madara leaned over the table and gripped Hashirama by the collar of his tsumugi. “Hashirama,” he said, deliberately enunciating every syllable. “Do you have _any _hobbies?”

His only answer was the slow sideways tilt of Hashirama’s head, as if Madara had suddenly started speaking one of the languages from across the vast oceans. He blinked a few times. “I, uh… I…”

“When I get some time to myself,” Madara told him, “I take care of my falcons. I spend time with them and talk to them. Not even Izuna’s allowed the aviary when I’m there, because that’s the time I get to myself. Just like I’m not allowed near Izuna’s room when he’s practicing his koto. Like how you don’t approach Tobirama when he’s researching or experimenting.” He took a deep breath.

“That’s what we do by ourselves, because that’s we like to do,” he said. “Something that’s entirely ours.” Silence. “You don’t have anything like that, do you?”

“Does the gambling thing count?” Hashirama blinked once.

“No,” Madara sighed. Gods _above_, the damage was even worse than he thought.

“Okay,” he folded his hands together on top of the chabudai. “You want Tobirama to have more time to read because reading makes him happy, right?” Hashirama nodded slowly. “What makes _you_ happy, Hashirama?”

“That’s easy!” Hashirama laughed. “Spending time with Tobirama, with Mito, with you… With people important to me!”

Hashirama was never alone because Hashirama didn’t _want_ to be alone, Madara realised with some horror. And he didn’t want to be alone because…

Who was he? If Madara took away the labels that defined him: the Senju’s clan head, Tobirama’s older brother, Mito’s husband, Madara’s first friend, and even the newest label of one of the founders of this village… Who _was _Hashirama? _I don’t want to be Butsuma_, he had said. _He never smiles so I smile all the time_. If Madara took even that away…

What did he have left? Who was he when he was with no one?

Madara didn’t ask. He knew the answer already, and he didn’t want it verbally confirmed. His heart felt too heavy already.

“Never mind that,” he sighed. “Look, you said that your whole clan is okay with… everything that Senju Butsuma did to you and Tobirama, right?” Hashirama nodded. “_All _of them?”

“All of them!” Hashirama nodded, grinning again.

“Has anyone told you,” Madara said slowly, “it’s really disturbing when you smile like that when saying horrifying things?”

Hashirama threw his head back and laughed. Then, he stopped abruptly, his face smoothing out into blankness as he tossed back the remnants of his cold tea and refilled his cup. “I don’t need people to tell me to know, Madara,” he said.

“Okay,” Madara said, blinking rapidly. “So, you know that your mood swings are really frightening, too, right?”

“My head’s not entirely screwed on straight,” Hashirama told him, tapping his temple with one hand while calmly ladling leaves into the teapot with the other. When he noticed Madara’s surely bug-eyed stare, he burst out laughing again. “Madara, I _know_ that there are a lot of things wrong with me. It’s really obvious even from the inside!”

“Then why do you—”

“Why do I laugh about it?” Hashirama finished for him. When Madara nodded, he rested an elbow on the chabudai and dropped his head on a hand. “It’s too tiring to get angry all the time, and if I laugh, I can pretend that it doesn’t really matter, which means that it can’t be used against me again. That makes things safer for people around me, too.” 

“How old were you when you started doing it?” Madara asked, throat very dry.

“Four,” Hashirama replied. “Mother was _really_ upset and cried a lot when Butsuma tried to drown Tobirama, but it didn’t get her anywhere. I tried laughing about it, and I got to take care of him sometimes.” He picked up the teapot and started pouring. “It works.”

Madara dropped his face into his hands. _Four_. Hashirama was _four_ when he learned— when he was forced to learn a strategy that would allow him around his own little brother. Hashirama started learning how to navigate around a warzone by the time he was four years old, because he was _born into one_.

Home had always been safety and comfort. Almost every Uchiha had the fire affinity, so though their bodies ran warm; because of that, _home_ had always been the flickering flames of a hearth fire and the light and billowing smoke from the forges. _Home_ was a place of flames and heat that reflected what lied beneath his own skin, where voices called out _okaeri_ when he returned and he could put down his masks and let down his guard.

He took a deep breath. Let it out.

“Aside from your mother, who clearly had some sense,” he said slowly, “none of your clan thought that there’s anything wrong with Senju Butsuma trying to drown his own son when he was a _baby_.” 

“Tobirama’s an albino,” Hashirama shrugged. “He has red eyes, Madara.” His gaze slid towards Madara, and his smile turned wry. “Red eyes in a clan whose centuries-long enemies have eyes in almost exactly the same shade.”

Madara swallowed hard. “So they tried to— because—”

“Part of it was superstition,” Hashirama said. “But the red eyes part can probably be forgiven if not for the fact that he was born a little too early, and was so pale and sickly that the medics thought he might not live long. It’s… mm, it’s the Will of Fire, you know?”

“What’s that?” Madara held up a finger from where his hands were curled around his teacup. “I said this to your brother once, and I’ll say it to you, too: repetition doesn’t explain anything.” 

“Oh,” Hashirama said. He scratched the back of his neck. “It’s… uh…” He flapped his hands vaguely in the air. “Sacrifice yourself for the greater good? Everyone has a role to play in the clan that they must fulfil to the best of their ability? A combination of both of those?”

“The Uchiha has that too,” Madara frowned. “But if anyone tries to drown their child like Senju Butsuma tried to with your brother, they would be chased out of the clan and smashed into paste with Susano’o for good measure.” He knew _he_ would do that, at least. “So… it can’t be just that.”

“It’s hard to explain,” Hashirama said, frowning. “I know there’s something wrong with it, but… Have you ever tried explaining to someone something you’ve known your entire life?”

Madara arched an eyebrow. “What, like the fact that you shouldn’t drown babies because of the colour of their eyes?” When Hashirama barked a laugh, Madara let a small smile curve the corner of his lips. 

“Honestly,” Hashirama sighed, “I can’t tell you more than that, Madara: I just know that it’s because he was sickly and no one thought he would live long, much less survive to adulthood. And something about the Will of Fire.”

“That’s_ all_ you can give me?” 

“I was four!” Hashirama protested. “And I was busy trying to find ways to get to Tobirama so I can give him my chakra to make him stronger! I didn’t have time to ask about why the clan thinks it’s okay for my baby brother to die!”

“Okay, okay!” Madara held up his hands. “Don’t start crying on me again!”

Hashirama’s lips immediately stopped wobbling. Madara breathed a sigh of relief, and set his mind to working again.

He hit on something else easily enough.

“The Uzushio contract was first made when Tobirama was a kid, right?” He didn’t wait for Hashirama to nod. “So, why does your clan think it’s okay to not just sell Tobirama, but also send him to Uzushio _alone_ when he was, what, ten?”

“Nine the first time he came back by himself,” Hashirama corrected, seemingly on automatic. “… Hah, okay, give me a bit of time. I need to think how to put this into words, because it just seems really obvious to me.”

“Hn,” Madara nodded. He poured the tea.

“It’s… insulting, I guess?” Hashirama said, sounding unsure. Madara froze, gaze flying towards him, but Hashirama was staring at the ceiling with a thoughtful and deep frown. “Insulting to Tobirama, because to have him accompanied implies that he couldn’t deal with whatever he met, and insulting to whoever who assigned to accompany him because that implied that they had nothing better to do with their time than to make sure Tobirama didn’t get killed.”

“What,” Madara said flatly.

“No, that’s not really it,” Hashirama said, clearly not having heard. “It’s…” His eyes went wide. “Ah, I got it!” He grinned at Madara, looking triumphant. “It’s a waste of resources!”

“A waste,” Madara repeated slowly, “of resources.”

“Yes, _that’s it_!” Hashirama punched a hand into the air. “Think about it, Madara! Sending people with Tobirama would rob him of the training opportunities that dealing with the threats on the road would give him. Plus, every Senju had their role in the clan, and taking them away from that means a reduction in productivity in whatever sector they work in, which is another waste of resources!” He clapped his hands. “That’s exactly it!”

“Hashirama,” Madara bit out. “Tobirama was _nine years old_. He could have _died_.”

“To quote Butsuma,” Hashirama gave that chilling, empty smile again. “That just means he’s not good enough.”

“Are you fucking with me,” Madara held up a hand. “Look, Uzushio gave and keep giving a fortune for Tobirama. Surely that amount of money can justify sending _one_ other Senju with him?” Hell, it should be enough to send _half of the clan_ as escort.

“The Will of Fire states,” Hashirama leaned forward, eyes intent and elbows on his knees, “that every Senju must have the willpower to become as strong as they can be. Or else—”

“That doesn’t answer my question!” Madara was _this_ close to punching Hashirama in the face again. “Uzushio’s contract gave enough to feed your clan for an entire year with plenty left over! Even if you think of it in terms of resources, risking that much by letting Tobirama go alone doesn’t make _sense_!”

Hashirama opened his mouth. Closed it. His fingers stroked his chin for a long, long moment. “Hah,” he said slowly. “Maybe ‘waste of resources’ isn’t the right way to put it. I should’ve stuck with ‘insulting.’” His gaze slid towards Madara. “Does that make more sense?”

“He was nine fucking years old!” Madara shrieked.

Spreading his arms out, Hashirama shrugged. “It just— it makes sense to me! It _doesn’t_ make sense to send other people with him!” 

Taking a deep breath, Madara forced himself to calm the fuck down. 

“Waste of resources,” He had to go back to that, because it was the most concrete thing Hashirama had given him so far. “Hashirama, are you telling me that your clan’s Will of Fire literally means that every single person, including children, have to earn the food they eat? The water they drink? The _air they breathe_?”

Hashirama opened his mouth. Closed it. “I’ve never heard it put that way,” he said.

“That’s what it sounds like!” Madara barely held himself back from shouting. “You keep using the word resource, and no one uses that word except for things like food and ore! If you apply it to people, you’re just implying that they need to, to earn the basic necessities required to be alive! Like they, they owe the clan something for the privilege of being born within it!”

Hashirama’s eyes went very wide. “That’s a better phrasing!” he yelled. “Yes, exactly! You need to earn the privilege of being a Senju!”

“What the fuck!” Madara screamed. “What kind of sense does that make?! You’re supposed to be thankful to be born into a clan that condones Senju Butsuma’s horrible abuse of you? _Tobirama_ is supposed to be grateful to be born into a clan who were _fine _about him being drowned as a baby?!”

“Basically!” Hashirama pinwheeled his arms.

Madara reached forward and shoved both hands over Hashirama’s mouth. “_Take this seriously_,” he hissed, and then dropped his arms back onto the floor.

“I am,” Hashirama told him, eyes suddenly serious again. “Look, I _know_ that my clan is fucked up, but I just don’t know _how_ or _why_. That’s why I’m asking you to help!”

“Okay,” Madara let out a long breath. “_Why _are you supposed to be grateful?”

“The Senju blood is strong, the Senju is one of the strongest shinobi clans in the Land of Fire, and Senju silk is prized,” Hashirama recited. “To be a Senju is to partake in the privileges of its centuries-won reputation. Therefore, every single Senju has a responsibility to help the clan grow even further in strength.”

“So,” Madara said slowly, “you’re saying that the entire worth of your existence… is to perpetuate your clan’s reputation?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not allowed to do anything else that might stray away from that.”

“Yes.”

“So, if anyone who _seems_ to be weak, you don’t help them become stronger, but instead leave them to die because they’re not worth the resources required to help them?”

“That’s it!” Hashirama screeched and pointed at him. “That’s why the clan was okay with Butsuma trying to drown my baby brother!”

Madara stared at him. Then, with a swift motion, he grabbed his tea and downed it in a single shot. Gods above, he _needed_ alcohol.

“_Why_,” he bit out through gritted teeth, “has no Senju set the entire compound on fire and burn it down yet?”

“Uh…” Hashirama rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t understand the question.”

Madara squeezed his eyes shut. Then, slamming his hand down on the chabudai, he stood and started pacing around the room. “You’re saying that you must do the best for the clan no matter the abuse that they deal you, yes?” Hashirama nodded. “_Why_?”

“Because that’s how you show that you love the clan,” Hashirama told him, head tilted to the side. “Or that you love someone in the clan.” Something must have shown on Madara’s face, because Hashirama drew his knees up to his chest and sighed.

“It’s like… To love someone in the clan is to help them become stronger and better, or to cover for their weaknesses,” he said. “And, in doing so, you help the clan. To love someone in the clan is to love the clan itself.”

That… that sounded familiar. But, at the same time, it was completely _alien_.

“Let me get the threads clear,” Madara said, crossing his arms and looking down at Hashirama. “If you love someone in the clan, you help them get stronger, or you get stronger yourself to help cover for their weaknesses.” A nod. “In doing so, you love the clan, no exceptions.” Another nod. “And you must help people get stronger, because only strong people deserve the resources that the clan spends on them.” Hashirama was started to smile.

“In other words,” Madara said, “your Senju Will of Fire bullshit essentially boils down to ‘be useful to the clan, or die.’”

“That’s a very mean way to put it,” Hashirama pouted.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Madara crossed his arms.

Hashirama’s brows scrunched up before he let out an explosive sigh. “You’re not wrong,” he admitted, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Okay, so.” Madara took a deep breath. “This Will of Fire bullshit also means that if someone is worth more to the clan when they’re sold, the clan will sell them? No matter how much they have done for the clan beforehand?” 

Hashirama nodded.

“Okay.” Another breath. “So, when someone does everything they can for the clan, what does the clan do for them?”

“What do you mean, what does the clan do?” Hashirama blinked. _Gods above_— Madara grabbed him by the face and stared into his eyes.

“The Uchiha remember not just every wrong done to us, but every unexpected act of kindness,” he said slowly. “We honour every sacrifice. We honour every _choice _made.”

“Huh?” Hashirama looked genuinely _confused_.

“Your brother,” Madara said, “came to my clan compound, decided that our system to get water isn’t good enough, and took it upon himself to provide us water. He didn’t do only that, but he also designed for us an irrigation system. _And_,” he took a long, rattling breath, “he made a lake for our washerwomen. Within twelve hours.”

“Yeah, you told me,” Hashirama nodded as best as he could. “This is, what, the third time?”

“He said,” Madara ignored him, “that it’s because we were inefficient, and he can make it more efficient, and he was genuinely shocked that we like him more for it.”

“I actually don’t know why you’re making a fuss over this,” Hashirama said, a little garbled. “I kind of get it in that well, you guys were our old enemies, but he could do it, so—”

“Listen,” Madara cut him off. “Do you know how we see it?” 

Trapped as he was, Hashirama couldn’t really shake his head. He tried anyway.

“He gave up most of his chakra every single day for a whole week, leaving himself vulnerable in a compound full of potential enemies, just to make those enemies’ lives better,” Madara said. “He didn’t have to. He could’ve stayed quiet. There’s nothing he could have gained from it. But he still chose to do it.” Looking at Hashirama for a moment, he finally let go, sighing.

“You’re going to say that you don’t think he could’ve done anything else, aren’t you?”

Clicking his teeth together, Hashirama nodded again.

“That’s what I mean by honouring choices,” Madara dragged a hand through his hair. “People make _choices_ to do things, and those choices have _meaning_. You can’t just— your Will of Fire bullshit _literally_ dismisses people’s effort as something that they _need _to do in order to _deserve the right to keep breathing_.”

Which answered the question why Tobirama had always gone alone to Uzushio. According to this Will of Fire bullshit, the Uzushio contract that Tobirama’s existence had gifted the Senju was something that the Senju had taken as their _due_, because they provided Tobirama with basic necessities like air or rice. As a result, he didn’t _deserve_ having an escort.

So, Tobirama’s entire obsession with _efficiency_ actually had a reason behind it: if his entire life was based on proving that he had the right to keep breathing because he was useful, then what better way to prove himself useful than to make things around him work better and more efficiently? 

These fucking _Senju_— a thought struck him.

“Hashirama,” he narrowed his eyes. “Did you murder your father because you were the only one who could stop him, so you thought you should do it?”

Biting his lip, Hashirama looked down. His nail scratched lightly at the tatami. He shrugged.

_I’m starting to think, _Madara recalled his own voice,_ that the Senju runs by the rule of sending people to do things that they could without ever thinking if they should do it._

__He remembered the look on Mito’s face when he had said it. He had never been so horrified to be right. 

“One— one last question,” he swallowed hard. “You call your mother ‘Mother,’ right?” Hashirama nodded. “What does that word mean to you?”

“The woman who gave birth to me and to whom I am beholden to for my existence,” Hashirama replied promptly. It sounded _rehearsed_.

“What about your ‘Father?”

“The man who gave the seed that created me and to whom I am beholden to for my existence.” There was no doubt that he was _reciting_. Again. 

Though that answer did explain why Hashirama kept calling his father by his given name, Madara was far more distracted by sheer horror.

Even the relationship between parents and their children had been tainted by this Will of Fucking Bullshit Fire, because it was now defined by the need for children to be _grateful for being born_. Madara bit back a scream. 

“Do… any of the Senju call their father ‘Dad?’” he threw out the question haphazardly. “What about their mothers? Do they call their mothers ‘Mom?’” 

Slowly, Hashirama shook his head. “I’ve never heard it,” he said. “They might do so behind closed doors, though, and revert to formality in front of me because I’m from the main house.”

Great; calling their parents by affectionate, casual terms was considered _shameful_ enough to be hidden away. Madara took a breath to calm his temper.

“My Mom,” he said carefully, “made all of my clothes, and cooked all of the food in the house.”

Hashirama blinked. “But… the clothes are for the weavers and seamstresses tasked to provide for the clan,” he said. “And food always comes from the communal kitchens.”

Alright, so it likely wasn’t only Hashirama who had never felt a family’s warmth. 

Madara swallowed another scream, because this was— this was so, so much worse than he had thought. Worse even than what he had _imagined_.

He started pacing around the room again.

How could _anyone_ live like this? How had the Senju not die out from emotional deprivation over the centuries? In fact— how many Senju committed suicide, or ran suicide missions, or simply found some way to die because being a Senju was far too miserable for any reasoning human being?

Madara knew he would take the first chance he could if he had to live in a clan like that. It was a miracle that Hashirama and Tobirama had grown up with somewhat-functional emotional capacities, given that not only was their father a horrific specimen that didn’t even deserve the title, but their entire clan took every effort they made to be something that they should have done, and had never given them a single whit of _appreciation_.

No wonder Hashirama had been so willing to throw away his entire family for a hypothetical village. No wonder Hashirama clung to him so hard. Madara was the only example of a _normal person_ he had ever met. 

“I can’t fix centuries of brainwashing in one afternoon,” Madara said, whirling around to face Hashirama again. “I can’t even promise to fix it, and,” he held up a hand, “if we’re going to try, it needs to be more than the two of us. We’ll need Tobirama, Mito, Izuna, and Touka, too.”

“Why?” Hashirama cocked his head to the side.

“Because we’re talking about determining a philosophy for the village,” Madara told him, tart. “If you think that a name will need the agreement of literally everyone, including the clans that aren’t even here, what do you think a philosophy will require?” He shook his head. “We need more brains.”

“Do I have to tell them that I….” Hashirama hesitated. His eyes glanced down to the floor.

Staring at him, Madara sighed. Hashirama had always been so powerful that it was difficult to think of him as vulnerable. But he had made himself this way because he had been weak too often, hadn’t he? The mokuton might have been something that he had—

Wait a thrice-damned minute. Did the Senju expect Hashirama to pay the debt of his existence even more because he had the mokuton, the _Senju_ kekkai genkai?

Better not to think about it. Madara still had to live with the Senju in this village; it wouldn’t be good for him to give into his urge to set the entire compound on fire with the Amaterasu and cackle wildly while they burned to death.

Gods above, he hadn’t even wanted to do that when they were at _war_. When the Senju had killed his elder brothers, one by one.

_Focus_.

He dropped down to his knees in front of Hashirama, ruffling his hair and feeling like Hashirama was years younger instead of a couple of months older than him. “You don’t have to tell them anything you don’t want to,” Madara said.

“Good,” Hashirama sighed. “I don’t want to send Tobirama into a crisis about respecting his duties to Butsuma and his love for me.” Something must have shown on Madara’s face, because Hashirama shrugged. “Like I said, Tobirama doesn’t see anything wrong with what Butsuma did. He still calls him ‘Father,’ and I have to use the same term around him so he doesn’t start asking questions.”

“Maybe,” Madara said carefully, “one day, when it’s clear that Tobirama has figured out that how Senju Butsuma treated his family is wrong, you can tell him.”

Another shrug, this time with his hands spread out, like Hashirama didn’t believe that day would come, much less how it ever could. “In any case, Madara,” he said. “Do you have any idea how to fix this?”

“A little,” Madara admitted. “Though, uh… It’s mostly about thinking about combining your clan’s philosophy with mine. So, I need to tell you something first.”

Hashirama blinked. “What?”

“You… remember that my clan murdered your little brothers, right?” Madara said.

“Yeah,” Hashirama nodded.

“Dad was the one who ordered it,” Madara said, stifling winces with every word. “You know that, right?”

Slowly, Hashirama cocked his head to the side. “Yeah…?” He seemed confused. Again.

Madara took a deep breath and charged straight ahead: “Dad deliberately aimed for Senju Butsuma’s sons because the Senju murdered three of _his_ sons, and he ordered for the younger ones to be targeted first as a warning—”

“That was nice of him,” Hashirama interrupted.

“What.”

“He left the heir and spare alone,” Hashirama said, like he was _reminding _Madara. “Which is rather nice of him. But I don’t see—”

“I’m trying to tell you,” Madara ground his teeth together, “that Dad had your brothers murdered because he was trying to protect the clan’s future, meaning me and Izuna, and _that’s_ the fucked up part about the Uchiha clan’s philosophy, because we will literally throw away morality and ethics if it comes to protecting people we love—”

“Isn’t his strategy flawed then?” Hashirama blinked up to him. “Like, it was kind of clear even before Kawarama and Itama died that it was Tobirama and me who are the monsters out of the four of us. Why didn’t your father just try to kill the two of us? What’s the point of giving Butsuma a warning? Even if your father didn’t know what Butsuma is like, killing the younger two would just increase the protection around the ones who were left, which means that the two _actually_ dangerous ones became harder to kill—”

“Hashirama—”

“So, it’s just a really bad strategy!” Hashirama threw up his hands. “Honestly, why didn’t your father try to kill Tobirama and me?” He paused, not nearly long enough for Madara to interject. “Or was it because he tried to have me and Tobirama killed and didn’t succeed? Were there Uchiha assassins trying to kill me? I don’t remember, there were a lot of assassins when we were kids—”

“_HASHIRAMA_!”

“What?!” Hashirama yelped.

“Why aren’t you mad that my clan murdered your brothers?” Madara nearly screamed in his face.

“Because Butsuma had a standing order that every single one of your father’s sons be killed on the battlefield the moment you guys appeared on it?” When Madara gaped at him, Hashirama cocked his head to the side. “It’s basic strategy, Madara: kill the young ones before they get powerful, especially if their blood is known to be strong. Why do you think I keep talking about how the war makes children die?”

“You—” Madara choked out. “You think that to be a _basic strategy_. You think that _killing children_ is—”

“I don’t understand—”

“It’s the worst thing Dad has _ever_ done in his life!” Madara took him by the shoulders and started shaking him _again_. “He was a great Dad and I loved him, I still love him, but I can never forgive him for ordering attacks on _children_, and you’re dismissing the greatest atrocity the Uchiha has ever committed upon the Senju as _basic strategy_?” 

Something Hashirama had said suddenly struck him with the force of a katon the face. He jerked backwards, hands dropping from Hashirama’s clothes, and stood. 

“Hashirama,” he whispered. “How old were you when you first went on the battlefield?”

Grinning sheepishly, Hashirama raised up eight fingers. Like he was hoping that not saying the number out loud would actually help to calm Madara down.

“How old,” Madara swallowed hard, “was Tobirama…?” Two fingers went down.

“Kawarama?” A finger went back up. “Itama?” Hashirama’s hand didn’t move.

Madara had just retold the story of Izuna at seven years old, playing pranks on him. By the time Tobirama was that age, he had been on the battlefield for a year. By the time Kawarama and Itama had been, they’d had far greater worries than whether or not their brother had the same biological mother, because they had been fighting for their lives.

“What was wrong with Senju Butsuma?” Madara cried. “What is wrong with your _clan_?”

“That’s… what I’m trying to figure out?” Hashirama stared up at him. 

Dragging his hands through his hair, Madara let out a breath. “Hashirama,” he said. “I only met you on the battlefield after Dad and Senju Butsuma found us meeting by the river. And I felt bad the first time we met, because I thought I forced your father’s hand into—” he stopped.

Because Hashirama was _howling_ with laughter, so hard that he had started rolling around the floor with it. Madara scowled, and kicked him.

“Sorry, sorry,” Hashirama said, not even bothering to dodge. “You— Madara, you’re so _nice_!”

“You’re literally the only person in the world who would say that,” Madara rolled his eyes.

“Nah, I bet Tobirama would, too,” Hashirama said. He wiped at his eyes, still shaking his head. “Speaking of him… Madara, how do you _think _Uzushio heard about Tobirama?”

Madara opened his mouth. Closed it.

“I kind of figured that you were an Uchiha the first time we met – your clan has very distinctive looks, you know,” Hashirama shrugged. “But, uh… I thought it’s nice to pretend to not know, especially since I had never seen you on the battlefield during the past four years I had been fighting on it.” He let out another burbling chuckle.

“How—” Madara croaked. “You _bastard_, you have been going easy on me since our very first battle, haven’t you?!”

Like Madara suspected, Hashirama only laughed. He crossed his arms, huffing. “How did I never hear of your name if you’d been fighting my clan for _four years_ before we met?”

“Oh, Tobirama and I were never on the frontlines, and we usually ran missions that didn’t let us meet Uchiha. Then you appeared, and Butsuma threw me at you to kill you,” Hashirama admitted cheerfully. “Because he wanted to teach me a lesson about making friends with the enemy.”

Madara stared. “Hashirama,” he said slowly. “How many times did Senju Butsuma try to beat you to death for not killing me?”

“He stopped trying after I got more powerful than him,” Hashirama said easily. “So, probably three or four times?” He spread out his hands. “Then he tried to go after Mito and Tobirama, and, uh… that didn’t end up very well for him.” He laughed sheepishly, scratching at a cheek. “Honestly, I wished you’d gotten the Mangekyou before he died, because then making excuses would’ve gone _much_ easier.”

“I have a question,” Madara said, sitting down again because he suspected he wouldn’t be able to stand after Hashirama answered. “If you have been fighting Senju Butsuma so much, and then he died… _How_ has none of your clan suspected that you killed him?”

Hashirama opened his mouth. Then he shut it, along with his eyes, and heaved a long sigh. “Why do you have to take away my illusions that Tobirama doesn’t know that I murdered Butsuma?” he said mournfully.

“Not just Tobirama, but,” Madara waved a hand.

“Oh, I don’t think they bother questioning it, because I’m more, uh, useful,” Hashirama said, eyes snapping back open. “The clan’s gotten richer – that’s mostly Mito and Tobirama – and there are fewer conflicts with the elders – that’s Mito and Touka. So, basically, I’m a better clan head than Butsuma because I have people around me who are better at covering up my faults, so the clan doesn’t question my leadership.” He paused. “Also, mokuton.”

“Mokuton,” Madara repeated flatly. “Mokuton means that they let you be clan head even if they suspect you of patricide.” 

Hashirama shrugged. Madara dropped his head into his hands and sighed deeply.

“That reminds me,” Hashirama said. When Madara peeked at him through his fingers, Hashirama was sitting with his knees drawn up and chin propped between them. “You were trying to tell me something about your clan’s philosophy, right?”

“Yeah,” Madara dropped his hands. “Uh—”

“That bit doesn’t really matter,” Hashirama waved a hand. “I think the more important part is that Touka would’ve killed herself if she was born an Uchiha.” He paused. “Mito, too, actually.”

Madara blinked. Then once more. “You’ve lost me,” he finally admitted.

“You know, I’ve met practically your entire clan since we started building this village,” Hashirama said, and that odd little smile was back. “And I have never talked to a single Uchiha woman. In fact, I don’t think I have seen a single Uchiha kunoichi.”

“Well,” Madara tilted his head, “I have never _seen_ a Senju woman other than Touka and Mito, because they all go around with veils on.”

“But there’s Touka, and there’s Mito,” Hashirama pointed out. “And you can talk to them – I’ve seen Uchiha men talking to the veiled women. But every single time I try to approach an Uchiha woman, I get intercepted by one of the men. And,” Hashirama took a breath, “I haven’t forgotten how you protested when I sent only Mito and Touka with you and Izuna to see the daimyo.” 

“…Yeah?” Madara said. He wasn’t really getting Hashirama’s point.

“Madara,” Hashirama said. “Do the Uchiha have a _single_ kunoichi?”

“What?” Madara sputtered. “Of course we do—”

“Let me change the question,” Hashirama interrupted. “Do you have a single kunoichi who hasn’t retired once she married? Or expected to retire once she’s married? Or a kunoichi who _didn’t_ marry? Is there anyone like Mito in your clan? Or Touka?”

Feeling rather attacked, Madara scrambled for his tea cup. Finding it empty, he poured from the pot. “No,” he admitted.

“The thing about the Senju is,” Hashirama said, contemplatively, “we’re cruel towards ourselves, I think, but there are benefits to that cruelty, too.” There was a trace of wry amusement in his eyes. “If you prove yourself useful enough, you can do anything you want. You can be anything you want.”

“What does that mean?”

“A thousand skills mean a thousand ways to make yourself useful,” Hashirama explained. “Sure, our women tend to be herded into specific skillsets, but if they showed themselves to be better at something else, like Touka did with her naginata and taijutsu, they’re allowed to keep going. If they show themselves really good at something important, like Mito is with politics, then they can take over the position from someone else who is supposed to do it.” Hashirama jerked his head down, motioning to himself.

“That’s…” Madara tilted his head, thinking it over. “That’s very few benefits for the sheer amount of fucked up you guys have to endure.”

“Yeah,” Hashirama nodded. “The proving yourself useful part is really fucked up, but like… Butsuma agreed to build Tobirama a lab once Tobirama showed himself really good at inventing jutsu. He even let him choose where it is to be build.”

Madara dragged a hand over his face. “You’re making basic decency sound like a huge privilege,” he said.

“But,” Hashirama said softly, “do your women get those privileges?”

“They—” Madara stopped. He busied his hands with the rim of his teacup as he thought. Luckily, Hashirama knew how to take a hint, and left him alone. 

“Tobirama’s teaching a couple of civilian kids how to mould chakra,” he said slowly. “And I’ve gotten complaints from some people about it.”

Hashirama made an encouraging noise. Madara kicked him under the chabudai to shut him up.

“It’s not just the women – they are a part of it, but…” he finished his tea and poured himself another cup, mind still churning. “What do the word ‘role’ means to the Senju?”

“A way to make yourself useful to the clan,” Hashirama answered promptly. “There’s more to it, of course, like being closer to the main line means that the expectations are higher, but you can summarise it as such.”

“For the Uchiha,” Madara said, staring ahead, “it’s a way to control yourself.”

“Huh?” For the first time in this entire conversation, _Hashirama_ was the one who needed more information. Madara stifled the burst of vicious satisfaction; now wasn’t the time.

“Mom was Dad’s legal wife,” Madara said slowly. “I call her ‘Mom’ because she raised me – my birth mother died when I was three. Anyway, she was Dad’s wife, and she loved him. She should’ve gotten really, really mad that Dad brought my birth mother home, especially after my older full-blooded brother Kushihiro was born, but…”

Hashirama made that stupid noise again. This time, Madara ignored him.

“But her role was that of Kushihiro’s legal mother, and as my birth mother’s older sister,” he said. “So… that’s how she fixated her emotions. I never even realised that my Mom didn’t give birth to me until I was five or six, because she made herself into the roles given to her.”

“So,” Hashirama said hesitantly, “you’re saying that the Uchiha use their roles to define themselves, so their emotions don’t go out of whack?”

“Essentially,” Madara said. “This thing,” he tapped the side of one eye, “wreaks havoc on our minds and emotions, so we _need _structure.”

He probably shouldn’t tell Hashirama that so explicitly. Then again, Hashirama wasn’t _that _unobservant: given how much time he was spending with Madara’s clansmen, the Sharingan’s strain on mental and emotional stability would’ve come out eventually.

“What’s your role, Madara?” Hashirama asked. 

“I’m clan head, and before that, clan heir, and before _that_, part of the main house,” Madara said. He started drumming his fingers on the table. “My duty is to serve the clan in every capacity I possess.” He drained his tea. “Calling it an obsession isn’t accurate, it’s more of…” He waved his hand vaguely in the air.

“A grounding force,” he decided on finally. “It’s what I go back to if I’m angry or upset enough to lose control.”

“So,” Hashirama said. “What about the civilians? They don’t have the Sharingan, right?” 

“Every Uchiha has the potential for a Sharingan,” Madara said, “and that’s enough to make you go crazy.”

“That sounds exaggerated,” Hashirama said, voice full of doubt.

“It’s not,” Madara shook his head. “Listen, if I, say, resurrect Senju Butsuma for the sole purpose of killing him slowly and painfully, my clan would unanimously vote to kick me out of the position of clan head, maybe even disown me as an Uchiha entirely. I’d be very upset then,” to understate it slightly, “and, without my role to fall back on, I would go _really fucking crazy._” Hashirama continued staring.

“Like world domination, try to steal the moon from the sky to give to the clan so they would take me back,” Madara elaborated. “That kind of insane.” 

Hashirama started shaking his head. “You wouldn’t—”

“I _would_,” Madara insisted. “Look, when you’re sleeping rough in the forest, you build a fire, right? What do you do?”

“Clear the ground, set a ring of stones, gather wood, put kindling in the middle, strike the flint over the driest part,” Hashirama reeled off. 

… Was drilling the only way the Senju taught their children? Was that why both Hashirama and Tobirama repeated themselves so much?

Never mind that—

“You need the ring of stones to make sure the fire doesn’t spread and go out of control, right?” Madara asked. “Now, imagine you make a fire on a summer afternoon, and you forgot the ring of stones. What do you get?”

“A wildfire—” Hashirama started. His mouth clicked shut, and his eyes went very wide. “You are a _fire clan_.”

“We are a fire clan,” Madara confirmed. “You take my role away from me, and I become a wild forest fire running unchecked destroying everything. Apply it to the entire clan…” He spread his hands out.

“But it seems so _limiting_,” Hashirama said, leaning forward with his head in both hands. “You’re literally trapping yourselves within the role that’s given to you.”

“Not really?” Madara frowned. “Everyone has more than one role. Like I’m not only clan head, but I’m Izuna’s older brother as well…” He trailed off, because Hashirama was smiling and looking at him with his head tilted to the side, and…

Okay, Hashirama _definitely_ was self-aware enough to realise that he had no identity other than his relationships with the people around him. And Madara had _just_ thought about how terribly tragic it was.

“It’s not the same!” Madara said, voice raising despite himself. “The roles don’t limit you, they define, and you’re allowed to have more— more _personality _aside from them!”

“But they _are_ restrictive,” Hashirama pointed out. “Just think about it, Madara: if you had been born a woman, with all of the power and strength that you currently have, what would you have become?”

Madara opened his mouth. What _were_ the roles available to women? There was Mom, and his birth mother, and Shiomi, and Mikami and Suriko and Komaki, and…

Hah, Hashirama was right. There_ wasn’t_ a single active Uchiha kunoichi that even _Madara_ could think of. Most of those he interacted with on a regular basis were civilians, and aside from being civilians defined by their duties to the clan, they were wives, and they were mothers. And they were…

Surely it wasn’t only the women. Hikaku was the head of their record-keepers, but he was… he was also the third strongest shinobi, and that was _two_ roles he had that had nothing to do with his family. If Madara added those, he was also a cousin, a son, and a brother, and… He could add on to that list, but he couldn’t do that for Shiomi or Mikami.

He couldn’t do that for _Mom_. 

_What’s wrong with that?_ A small voice piped up in his head. _It has always been this way_.

_You haven’t tried to change anything… because you have done the same thing for decades? Centuries? _Another voice replied, deep but still with a hint of youth. Tobirama. _It’s inefficient._

“How,” Madara said slowly, “do your Senju women show themselves to be better than the role they’ve been given?”

“Well,” Hashirama laughed quietly, “Touka ran out of the compound walls and took on a Hagoromo squad head-on alone when they tried to invade us. She came back with…” he tilted his head, frowning. “Nine heads? Ten? And covered entirely in blood.”

Madara let out a long, low whistle. “I can’t imagine any woman doing that,” he admitted.

“I think,” Hashirama said, eyes dark and serious, “Touka is a rushing waterfall, and your clan would’ve dammed her the moment she was born.” 

_We honour every choice made_, Madara heard his own voice saying. But, he thought, what choices could be made by those who were never given a chance to choose? Who were never really given _options_ to choose from? 

He dug his palms into his eyes. “What about your mother?” he grumbled. “She’s a kunoichi, right? But I’ve never heard of—”

“Oh, she wasn’t,” Hashirama said.

Madara lowered his hands. “What?”

“Mother was from a civilian branch,” Hashirama explained. “The main line had been marrying shinobi branches for too many generations, which is why Mother was chosen. She was a seamstress, actually—”

“Wait,” Madara interrupted, holding up a hand. “Your mother was a seamstress, and she wasn’t allowed to make clothes for her own sons?”

Hashirama paused. “You know,” he said, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “I think that might be one of the reasons why Mother killed herself.” 

“At this point,” Madara said, “I think it’s more accurate to say that your clan killed her.” He dug his knuckles into the corners of his eyes again. “The Senju is _so_ much more fucked up than my clan.”

“For sure!” Hashirama boomed a laugh. “I still want them to disappear, but I think yours just needs a little tweaking here and there.” 

Stubbornly keeping his hands over his eyes, Madara sighed. _Them_, Hashirama said. Like he wasn’t a Senju.

“You want this village to replace your clan, don’t you?”

“Pretty much,” Hashirama’s shrug showed in his voice. “It’ll take some work, but if I can get Mito and Touka to help me, we can convince the rest of the clan that the Senju must set an example by adopting the village’s philosophy first. The whole clan won’t disappear from that, but, mm, hopefully the worst parts will vanish. And in a couple of generations…” He clapped his hands together and then flung them apart.

“You kind of got rid of the worst part with your own hands already,” Madara noted dryly.

“I _said_ that I don’t want the Senju to all die,” Hashirama huffed.

Finally letting his hand drop from his face, Madara stood. He headed for some of the shelves, hunting for paper and brushes this time. When he found them, he set them on the chabudai and pushed them over to Hashirama. He had better eyes, and better handwriting, too.

“So,” Madara said, putting his elbow on the table and resting his head on it, “the Senju’s idea of ‘be useful or die’ needs to be erased or, better yet, be burnt to the ground. Hopefully using Uchiha fire.”

The tip of his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth, Hashirama started writing. When Madara glanced at the paper, he realised that Hashirama was writing his words _verbatim_. He rolled his eyes.

“Meanwhile,” he continued, “the Uchiha needs to _expand_ the number of roles we offer. Not just the women, though they’re a big part, but the civilians as well.”

Hashirama transcribed that word by word as well. Then he put down the brush, and the two of them looked at the piece of paper.

“Tobirama can probably figure something out,” Madara muttered.

At the same time, Hashirama said, “I need my little brother.”

They stared at each other. 

Hashirama gave in first, shoulders shaking even as he slapped a hand over his own mouth. Madara dropped his face into one hand, laughing despite himself.

“We’ll just—” Hashirama choked out through his giggles, “we’ll just wait for him to get back, then?”

“Are you telling me you actually have an idea about how to do this?” Madara flapped his free hand at the paper. “Because I have absolutely no clue.”

“I can just imagine him now,” Hashirama cackled. “_Anija, the solution is really simple. You should’ve thought about it more instead of waiting for me to tell you._” 

That high voice sounded so anathema to Tobirama’s _actual _voice that Madara cracked up so hard that his forehead hit the table. 

“Ow,” he said. “That sounded nothing—” Then he stopped, because Hashirama’s laughter had abruptly petered off. Madara lifted his head, blinking, and blinked a few times more when Hashirama stood up and started to start _stripping_.

“What— oy!” Madara yelped. “What the hell are you—”

Ignoring him, Hashirama shoved down one shoulder of his nagajuban and turned around. Madara squinted, looking closer. Was that… was that a _seal_ on his back, right below his shoulder? And was it _glowing_?

“Tobirama put this on me before he left,” Hashirama said, craning his head to try to look at it. “I didn’t get a thing about what he said – something about summoning and regeneration? – but he put it there and it just _activated _somehow, and—”

He blinked. “Madara?”

Madara knew his face must look very strange right now. But he couldn’t help it; he felt like something had just walked over his _grave_. He swallowed hard.

“I think,” he said slowly, “something happened to Izuna.” 

Their eyes met for the briefest moment. Then, as Hashirama pulled his clothes back on, Madara scrambled to his feet and grabbed the paper on the table, shoving it into one sleeve.

“I’ll ask Mito for the fastest way to Uzushio,” Hashirama said. “Someone needs to stay behind for both of our clans; I’ll figure it out for the Senju, and—”

“Let me send a falcon to Hikaku first,” Madara cut him off. “He already has one, but there’s no harm sending another.” He grabbed Hashirama’s wrist before his friend could rush out of the door. “Do _not_ leave before we get word.”

“But—”

“Think, Hashirama!” Madara hissed. “Uzushio will be this village’s first formal ally once it’s done, and we can’t rush in with accusations before knowing anything.” When Hashirama looked mulish – which Madara could understand, because he didn’t want to care about politics when Izuna and Tobirama might be in danger either – Madara switched tracks.

“Tobirama will be mad at you if you just rush into Uzushio because the seal started working,” he said. “You don’t want him mad at you, right?”

Hashirama closed his eyes. “I’m still getting the fastest route from Mito,” he said, voice flat. “But the _moment_ you get word…”

“I’ll tell you,” Madara promised. He threw the door open with his other hand and let go of Hashirama’s wrist. “Now, I need to find my falcons.”

He didn’t wait for Hashirama’s response, immediately running westward and thanking Izuna for his reminder to keep Natsuru with him in the village.

What could have hurt _both_ Tobirama and Izuna in Uzushio? They couldn’t have been in danger of the typhoons, not with Tobirama’s suiton skills. But—

Memories of _cold-alien-wrong_ chakra crept into his head. Madara gritted his teeth, and ran even faster.

No. No, that was his imagination. It had to only be his imagination.

Izuna had _promised_ to be careful, and Izuna wouldn’t break his promises.

Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot to say about abuse, East Asian culture, and culturally-sanctioned abuse, but I deleted all of it to leave only three things.
> 
> One, this is the most important chapter out of all those posted. In fact, I think it’s the most important chapter of the whole fic. So, please, if you skimmed through it trying to figure out what happened with Tobirama and Izuna and you’re disappointed to have found very little, please give the chapter another chance. _Everything_ from the previous eleven chapters has led up to this, and everything will spiral from here. There’s a reason why it’s thirteen thousand words and I didn’t cut it into half.
> 
> Two, every single aspect of both clans discussed here reflect a true part of Confucianism and East Asian culture. This _entire _fic is about as many aspects of Confucianism and East Asian culture as I can squeeze into the narrative. Because _Naruto_ is about the main character who, when faced with a culture and a people who made him a pariah, accepts it unquestioningly, makes himself worthy in accordance to their standards, and makes no effort whatsoever to change what has damaged him. For that, he is called a hero and a role model. I hope I’ve shown why it is this way, and why that way is fucked up.
> 
> Three, Konoha’s Will of Fire in canon isn’t nearly as fucked up as the Senju’s in this fic. If you extrapolate from this Hashirama, he created Konoha’s version based on what he’s familiar with and diluted it with what little he remembers of Madara’s stories. Also, you will take the idea that the Senju having disappeared in canon by Naruto’s generation to be something entirely intended by Hashirama from my dying hands. (No, he still won’t ever get a POV scene or chapter. I love him and writing him, but he has an entire canon arc where he’s the narrator.)


	13. castle hidden in the whirlpools

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just two things to note about the previous chapter (because I am forever drowning under my job, so I can’t reply to everyone properly like I want to):
> 
> 1) Nothing about either the Senju nor the Uchiha clan cultures have anything to do with Zetsu. As I stated in the end notes, both clans reflect East Asian and specifically Japanese cultures. In other words, these are actual lived experiences for millions, and have nothing to do with a fictional (and frankly terribly-written) villain.
> 
> 2) The culture of the Senju is fucked up, but they haven’t always been horrible. Butsuma was a particularly terrible specimen placed in a position of power, and the culture aided and abetted his horrors. That makes the culture itself prone to abuse, because it is incredibly dependent upon those in power being moral and/or capable. When that’s not the case, things go very badly, very quickly, for a huge number of people, and it takes decades before the country or region can recover. Off the top of my head: China’s Sima Zhong, Korea’s Yeonsan, and Imperial Japan as a whole. But at the same time, it is _not _entirely bad, as seen by Mito and Touka. 
> 
> This fic is made to mirror real life, and real life is complicated. Anyway.
> 
> **Warnings: **Pretty detailed descriptions of euthanasia.

Touka panted. 

Every breath made her lungs burn. Her head pounded, her back screamed. The blisters on her feet had burst hours ago, drying blood chafing at the spots where skin touched leather sandal. Her vision threatened to waver. She fixed her eyes on the uchiwa fan in front of her, white and red stark against dark blue, and gritted her teeth as she pushed herself into another shunshin. 

They had been running for three days, making only brief stops to choke down water and soldier pills. A week’s journey cut into half, but they still weren’t fast enough. 

“Stop!”

She didn’t want to, but Hashirama was already obeying, the branches of the tree ahead of him warping to wrap around his form as he crashed straight into it. Part of Touka expected him to start flailing and making a fool of himself, but Hashirama only formed a brief hand seal, forcing the tree back into its original shape, before he turned to look at the one who had spoken.

“If we keep,” a long, shuddering breath, “going like this, we’re all going to collapse the moment we reach Uzushio,” another one of those shaky inhales, “and be completely useless.”

Trying to control her own breathing, Touka turned.

Madara was leaning against yet another tree, one hand on his chest and face pale. A few strands had escaped from his high ponytail and were plastered to his face with sweat.

“And,” Madara continued, black eyes landing straight on _her_, “she’s going to fall over with chakra exhaustion any minute.”

“I am _not_,” Touka hissed. “I can keep going like this for another three days more.”

If she couldn’t keep up, they would leave her behind. _Again_. She refused to be left behind. Not when—

“You can’t,” Madara said. “I’m not Tobirama, but—” he had to stop talking to dodge her wild punch.

“Shut up!” she shrieked. “Keep his name out of your fucking mouth, you—” Arms wrapped around her, pinning her arms to her sides, even as Madara stared at her with wide black eyes. “It’s _your_ little brother who stabbed him. It was _your_—”

“Touka-kun,” Mito’s voice, soft and steely, rang in her ear. “Touka-kun, please calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Touka screamed. “How _dare_ he say Tobirama’s name when it’s—” She shook her head hard. “I should’ve known better than to trust you Uchiha. I should’ve known that all this had been a _trick_.”

Things had been going so well. Though Touka had trusted Mito, it had taken her seeing Tobirama around Madara to know that her little cousin _was_ comfortable around him and the Uchiha. There had even been a few old retired shinobi who had sung his praises in front of her, and one civilian Uchiha woman who had asked, only half-joking, how the Senju was surviving without Tobirama because he had made their lives so much better after only a few months.

They liked him and appreciated him and Touka had been so relieved, so _grateful_, that they hadn’t abused him or taken him for granted. And though the Uchiha shinobi had been polite enough to avert their eyes, the civilians had met her gaze squarely. Just a few days ago, Touka had indulged in thinking that maybe this village thing could really work, maybe she could live alongside the generations-long enemies of her clan, and…

Izuna had always smiled at her, had always sought her out. He had teased and joked and Touka was an _idiot, idiot, idiot_, who trusted too quickly and she should have known better, she should have—

“Listen,” Madara started. 

“_Shut up_!” Touka cut him off with a shout, trying to pull out of Mito’s arms so she could punch him properly in the face. “Don’t you dare say—”

“If the Uchiha were planning to kill Tobirama, do you think Hikaku would’ve reported it?!” Madara roared, straightening to his full height to try to loom over her. “Or that I would’ve shown Hashirama the letter—”

“Who knows what you bastards are planning?!” Touka screamed right back at him. “All I know is that your bastard of a brother _stabbed _my baby cousin—”

“Do you think I’m not worried about Tobirama?” Madara yelled. “And I know that Izuna would never do something like that, so something must’ve happened to him, and the gods only know what the Uzumaki are doing to—”

“Izuna can die for all I care!” Touka tried to throw Mito off of her again. “If he didn’t want to die, then he wouldn’t have—”

“_Enough!_”

Roots burst from the ground. Touka barely had a moment to realise that Mito had let go before vines were wrapping around her, dragging her away from Madara, even as a branch snapped around the bastard Uchiha’s waist and pinned him against the trunk of the tree he had been leaning against. 

Touka opened her mouth to protest, but a vine slapped her across the face and pressed in between her teeth. She gained _some_ satisfaction from the wide-eyed look of shock on Madara’s face when a branch wrapped around his throat and threatened to choke the life out of him.

Hashirama’s ragged sigh was very loud in the sudden silence.

“He’s nor dead,” he said, sounding like he had aged twenty years in the three days since they had received news about Tobirama. “Izuna’s not dead, either. No one’s dead. And we can’t fight each other when we need to figure out what happened.”

What kind of world was they living in, Touka thought hysterically, when _Hashirama_ had become the voice of reason?

“Please, Touka, Madara,” Hashirama said. “We can’t have the village ruined even before anyone moves in. We can’t…” His hands trembled as he buried his face into them. “Tobirama gave himself up for the village—”

_No, he didn’t,_ Touka snarled at him mentally. _You sold him. You sold him, you bastard_—

Hashirama dropped to his knees, digging the palms of his hands into his eyes. “Please don’t fight,” he whispered.

A sudden crack, and Madara stepped out of the tree branches securing him. Ash scattered around his clothes before he shook them off. His gaze darted from Hashirama to Touka before finally landing on Mito. “Well?” he asked. “Do you have anything to add?”

“Not yet,” Mito said. She swept across the forest floor to Hashirama, bending to wrap her arms around his shoulders. “But I know that my father would’ve done everything he can to keep Tobirama alive, and he wouldn’t do anything unreasonable against Izuna, either.” As Hashirama stood, legs trembling despite leaning nearly his full weight on his wife, Mito turned her head and touched her forehead against his jaw. 

“Given that Hikaku has written to us,” she continued in the same low, calm voice, “we can presume that he’s fine, too.”

Madara dragged both hands over his hair, mussing up the strands even further. “I’ll take your word on that,” he muttered. Then his gaze flickered back to Touka, and he sighed.

“I can’t _say_ anything that’d prove that I’m sincere, because words are worthless about this,” he said. “But know this: Tobirama’s one of mine, and when I vowed to protect him as such, I meant it.” 

Touka tensed as he got closer, but he only blew a katon into his fingers and, somehow, guided the flames over to the vines immobilising her, burning them away without touching either clothes or skin. 

Stumbling forward, she smacked Madara’s hand away when he tried to steady her. “Not until I see that he’s fine.” she said. Drawing herself up, she met his gaze squarely. “You said it yourself, Uchiha: words are worthless. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Alright,” Madara said. “But my point about your chakra exhaustion still stands.”

Touka opened her mouth to protest – she was _not_ that tired – but a soft chuckle interrupted her.

“Come on,” Hashirama said. He had dropped to the ground with his back to her and was smiling crookedly at her over his shoulder. “Remember when you used to do this for me when we were kids?”

Touka’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t want to, not in front of Madara, but her entire body screamed at her to rest. And it wasn’t— it wasn’t entirely strange for Hashirama to carry her on his back, was it? He had done that for her and Tobirama plenty of times after a drawn-out battle, because his chakra reserves were at least three or four other Senju put together, and…

Tobirama. She would do anything for her little cousin. Even put aside her pride in front of a bastard Uchiha.

“That’s because your growth spurts came late,” she huffed as she walked towards Hashirama. “Then you became a tree.”

“I really don’t get why you guys think that’s an insult,” Hashirama said, pushing his loose hair over one shoulder. When Touka draped herself across his back, thighs on either side of his hips, he hefted her up and stood. His feet were steady like she weighed nothing. “Trees are awesome.” 

“Husband,” Mito said, the corners of her eyes creased with worry as she looked at Hashirama. “Are you sure…”

“Yeah,” Hashirama said. “I’m going to fall over the moment I see Tobirama, though. Quite possibly _on_ him.”

A sudden burst of laughter. “I’m sorry,” Madara said, flapping his hands at the three pairs of eyes staring – or, in Touka’s case, _glaring_ – at him. “I just— I just imagined his _face_ if you do that.”

“_Anija_,” Hashirama used that high-pitched voice he always did when pretending to be Tobirama, “your emotions are gross, stop having them.”

Madara laughed so hard that he collapsed sideways, his hand shaking as he slapped it over his own face. “That,” he gasped out, “shouldn’t be so funny.” He smacked his head against the tree trunk. “I need to— to stop laughing, fuck.” 

“We are,” Mito let out a soft laugh, one hand over her face and head tilted back, “so fucking tired, aren’t we?”

Touka _stared_. She had known Mito for nearly eight years now, and she could count the number of times Mito had sworn in her presence with one hand and still had fingers left over. The older woman used her reputation and bearing as a proper lady, both terms greatly emphasised, as a weapon, and would never do anything to jeopardise it.

But she had just done it. Not only that, she had sworn in front of _Madara_. And, given Madara’s entire lack of reaction, it wasn’t the first time.

“I kind of want to keel over and die,” the Uchiha himself was saying, tone conversational. Then, taking a deep breath, he slammed his hand against the tree trunk and straightened. “How long more?”

“Another hour if we keep at the same speed,” Mito answered, cracking her neck from side to side. “We’ll reach the ocean then, and, from there, it’s another hour across water.” Her eyes slid towards Hashirama. “Are you _sure_, husband?”

Touka should offer to run on her own—

“Gonna fall on Tobirama,” Hashirama sang. “Gonna aim for his face.”

Madara buried his head into his hands. “I want,” he muttered through his fingers, “to see him flail.” His arms dropped back to his side, face contorting as he obviously tried to get his laughter under control. “And then I’m going to do the same to Izuna, and Izunawill_ scream_.” 

Despite Touka’s best efforts, Izuna’s face floated in front of her mind’s eyes. There was one particular expression he had, with his eyes wide and mouth half-opened to catch flies, and if she added Madara flopping on top of him like a dead fish to that picture…

She buried her face into Hashirama’s shoulder and _laughed_.

It would be so much easier if she could go back to hating the Uchiha, she thought to herself. So much easier to hate them if she kept thinking of Madara as the person most likely to kill Hashirama on a battlefield, or Izuna as Tobirama’s opponent. Like that, they were practically faceless, and she didn’t have to think about how she knew exactly what Izuna looked like when he laughed, or notice how _fond_ Madara sounded whenever he talked about her little cousin. 

So much easier. 

“Let’s get moving,” Hashirama said. His hands came under Touka’s thighs, hoisting her a little further up his back. “You two ready?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Madara said, stretching his arms out behind him. He waited for Mito’s nod before darting forward.

Riding on Hashirama’s back as he ran was fine. But when he started moving into shunshin, crossing over a hundred metres each time, Touka had to bite back yelps and dig her nails into her own elbows so she didn’t end up strangling him while trying to hold on.

It took her a few moments to realise that Mito and Madara were keeping up with him, their forms little more than blurs of colour amidst the forest. Touka swallowed, because—

They had been slowing down for her, hadn’t they? Touka knew that Hashirama and Mito did that when they travelled with her or Tobirama; Tobirama might be faster than all three of them, but he was a sprinter, without the kind of stamina that Mito and Hashirama, being the chakra monsters that they were, had. 

But for Madara to do so without even mentioning it, without throwing it in her face even while she had been yelling at him… _And_ for him to check on her regularly enough to know when her chakra levels were dipping to dangerous levels when she had been deliberately ignoring her body’s warnings…

She didn’t want to like him! Much less think of him as a decent man! 

The scent of salt hit her nose. Touka swallowed – that had been _much_ less than an hour – and braced herself as Hashirama came to a sudden stop so she didn’t smash her face into the back of his head. 

Peeking over the top of his head, Touka blinked. They were on the top of the cliff, and the ocean was right below them, the waves white as they smacked against the cliff’s side. Far ahead, the sun was starting to set, white light shifting towards oranges and reds.

“Follow behind me,” Mito said, tossing her thick braid of red hair over her shoulder as she walked right to the edge. “Step _only_ where I step. A single mistake will end up with you dropping into the ocean or, worse, into one of the whirlpools.”

“Whirlpools,” Madara repeated flatly.

“Uzushio wasn’t named after the Uzumaki,” Mito said, flashing a grim smile over her shoulder. “The Uzumaki named themselves after Uzushio, and Uzushio’s name comes from…” She trailed off significantly.

“The whirlpools that surround it,” Madara said. “Got it.” He grabbed the top of his head with one hand and _cracked_ his neck sharply. “Well, this is going to be _fun_.”

“Actually, it is,” Hashirama said brightly. He urged Touka’s legs to cross in front of his hips, and settled both of his hands on her arms. “Ready, Touka?”

“I’m literally making no effort whatsoever,” she said, voice dry.

“Holding onto me is going to be a little difficult,” Hashirama said. His smile barely reached his eyes when he turned back to look at her. “So do your best.”

She was really tempted to kick him, but she shouldn’t move her legs. So, she butted the back of his head with her chin. “Move already.”

Hashirama laughed, turning to face the ocean again. Mito glanced at him, and then Madara, before she let herself fall from the cliff’s edge.

Madara went first, following two steps behind her as he ran down the cliff. Hashirama hooted as he fell as well, darting to the side just in time to avoid a wave that crashed towards them. Touka swallowed back a yell as she watched Mito leap from the middle of the cliff, already in the middle of a shunshin, and landed on top of an incoming wave. The moment her foot touched water, she threw herself forward, and her next step was on top of another one.

Curses streaked the air as Madara scrambled to do the same, his movements far less fluid, arms practically pinwheeling at his sides as he tried to keep his balance. And Touka realised why when Hashirama jumped from the cliff: he had to shift his weight so he wouldn’t be swept backwards by the movements of each wave. Touka clung onto him as tightly as she could, and tried to not think about how she wouldn’t have been able to make this stretch on her own.

Then Mito started to laugh, a rich full roar that cut through the sounds of crashing water. Her head was tilted back, arms spread out as she hopped from wave to wave with the ease of stones skipping over a calm river’s surface. She wasn’t even looking as she started weaving in zigzagging lines over the water, deftly avoiding swirling white waters that were surely the whirlpools that Uzushio had been named after.

Suddenly, Hashirama darted forward. His hand had closed around Madara’s elbow even before Touka could shake off the dizziness of his shunshin, dragging the other man away from the edge of the whirlpool he had been skirting dangerously close to. Madara’s eyes were very wide, Sharingan spinning as they turned towards Hashirama, and Touka couldn’t tell Hashirama’s reply, but whatever he did had Madara running right beside him, their bodies barely an inch apart as they rushed to catch up with Mito.

By the time she started wondering if the island was a myth because she could see nothing but water everywhere, Touka thought she was permanently deafened by both the constant roar of the ocean around her and the salt stuffing up her ears. She gritted her teeth and held on to Hashirama as tightly as she could without strangling him.

Then, she could hear, because the whirlpools and huge waves had shifted into lapping currents. And she knew because—

“—the hell did Izuna and Hikaku manage this crossing?” Madara was yelling. “It’s ridiculous!”

“Boats!” Hashirama shouted back. 

“What?!”

“Running on water is the fastest way!” Hashirama told him, voice at a much lower volume. “The other way is by boat, and they’d arrive at another side of the island.” He gripped his hair with both hands and started squeezing the water out of the strands.

Madara blinked at him. “You mean that there are boats that can—”

“We’re arriving at the front of the island,” Mito said. Somehow, before Touka noticed, she had slowed down enough that she was now running along Madara’s other side. “We were at the border between the Land of Fire and the Land of Water,” she said, jerking a thumb behind her, “and we’re now curving around the edge of the continent. We’ll arrive at Uzushio’s southernmost port, which faces the open ocean.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Madara said, sounding a little wry.

“There’s a small strait in between currents that can allow a boat or two to pass,” Mito waved a hand vaguely eastwards. “That’s how most visitors get to Uzushio.”

“I’m guessing that you guys don’t get many visitors,” Madara said.

“Few,” Mito nodded. “In any case, let’s move faster. Here’s the last stretch.” Before anyone else could reply, she was darting forward again, water splashing around her sandals.

Madara cursed under his breath as he followed, and Hashirama laughed, loud and long, as he ran to catch up with both of them.

Part of Touka wanted to yell, wanted to shout, that they shouldn’t sound carefree like this, because they weren’t going to Uzushio for a pleasure visit. But there was something about the ocean around them, an endless stretch of blue, and the constant wind that warmed their faces even as the salt made her eyes tear up, that loosened the death grip of her worries on her shoulders. She could still feel their weight, of course, but they seemed… less and lighter, somehow.

The ocean was so great, so all-encompassing, that everything seemed much tinier in comparison.

“What is she doing?” Madara suddenly hissed, waving towards Mito.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Hashirama said. “But if you mean her chakra, she’s probably signalling our arrival.”

“But we can’t see land just—” Madara cut himself off abruptly. “Oh.”

Under the light of the setting sun, Uzushio shone. The beaches were like liquid gold, grains of sand shimmering beyond jewelled sheets of blue. Some lanterns had been lit, and the flickering fires gleamed like swaying rubies. 

In the centre of the island, a castle rose, several storeys tall and surrounded by turrets on both sides. The walls were pale-coloured, capturing the splendour of the sunset that cast a sheen of gold on every inch. Its roof tiles were grey, the corners turned upwards and edged with more silver and gold that shimmered like pearls. Surrounded by the smaller, duller buildings around it, the castle resembled a landed heron with its wings spread to protect the entire island.

“Holy shit,” Madara breathed. Touka had to concur. She used Hashirama’s shoulder to click her jaw back shut.

“Uzu Castle,” Hashirama said, sweeping an arm out. “The residence of Uzushio’s Prince.”

“You grew up _there_?” Madara whirled to face Mito so sharply that his hair whipped into his face. “In a castle like _that_?”

“The entire Uzumaki clan lives in Uzu Castle,” Mito corrected. She slid a smile over to Madara. “It’s pretty big, isn’t it?” 

“To say the least,” Madara said, still gaping. “You… The terms of the contract make so much more sense now.”

It took a moment for Touka to understand what he meant: that castle practically screeched that Uzushio, though tiny, was wealthy beyond most people’s imaginations. Touka could barely imagine just how much building that castle with pale wood and stone had cost, much less the amount of gold and silver – neither of which, she was sure, could be found in Uzushio – was required to line _every_ roof tile.

Shaking her head hard, Touka focused. Now that she was looking, she could see a figure standing on the very edge of the shore, as if waiting for them.

“Father’s expecting us,” Mito said before Touka could even open her mouth. “Let’s not keep him waiting longer.”

Then, with another burst of speed, she leapt ahead. Madara followed immediately after, and Hashirama yelped, hands settling on Touka’s arms, before shifting into a shunshin as well.

They landed on the beach barely seconds behind Mito, but before Touka could get off Hashirama’s back, Mito was already walking forward, arms spread outwards. Her father gripped her tightly by the shoulders and pulled her into a swift hug. 

“It has been years, daughter,” he murmured. Mito nodded, and stepped back.

“How has the weather been?” she asked.

Something shifted in her father’s eyes, and he inclined his head. “We had several tidal waves three days ago at sunrise, but Susano’o has blessed us with calm seas since then,” he said. Then, before Mito could reply, he turned away from her.

“Uchiha Madara-sama,” he nodded. “Senju Touka-san.” Touka returned the greeting with a low bow of her own. “Hashirama-san, it has been a long time.”

“It has, father-in-law,” Hashirama nodded. “Pardon me for my rudeness, but: where is my brother?”

“I would be surprised if you had patience for formality now, son-in-law, given that you have rushed here in half the usual time required,” Mito’s father said, shaking his head. 

“Where is—” Madara took a deep breath. When he started again, his voice was much lower. “Where is _my_ brother? Where is Izuna?”

“Uchiha Izuna-san has been treated fairly, and will continue to be so,” Mito’s father said, meeting Madara’s eyes for a brief moment before turning away, no doubt due to the brief flash of red. “You will see him once our business has concluded.”

“But—” Madara started, but cut himself off abruptly when Hashirama placed a vice grip on his forearm.

“My brother, father-in-law.” A muscle twitched at his jaw. “Please.”

Touka deliberately relaxed her hands by her side, and breathed out through her teeth. “Please,” she added. “Your Highness.”

Dark eyes, so much like Mito’s yet far colder, rested on her for a long moment. “Very well,” Mito’s father said eventually. “Come, arashi no shihaisha-sama is in his room.” With that, he turned, the hems of his hakama sweeping over the sand, and headed for the castle.

Touka followed, keeping her head down so as to not see the looks on Hashirama’s and Mito’s faces, much less Madara’s. 

She had been selfish to have ridden on Hashirama’s back. Not only because it tired him out, but also because it had allowed her to enjoy the feel of the wind and to take in her first look of Uzushio. It had allowed her to be distracted by the splendour of everything she had seen instead of— instead of—

It was fine for Mito to have enjoyed the last leg of the trip here, Touka thought viciously. Mito had been returning to the place where she had grown up, her childhood home that she had not seen ever since she had married Hashirama, and that could be excused. But Touka had let herself stop thinking, stop worrying, and now they were _here _and Tobirama had been _stabbed _and Touka still didn’t know if he was still alive, didn’t know if he still breathed because Uzushio’s Prince wasn’t saying a word—

“How is he?” Hashirama’s voice rang out suddenly, breaking her from her spiral without even meaning to.

“Arashi no shihaisha’s wound has healed,” Mito’s father replied. “But he still sleeps.”

Touka’s breath hitched in her throat. He was— Sleeping was just a euphemism for being in a _coma, _and people usually didn’t… They simply didn’t wake up from those.

(Her own father had fallen into one after receiving a particularly terrible wound during a battle against the Hagoromo, and when he hadn’t woken up from that. He had slept for _weeks_ by then, and no one, not even Touka’s mother, had thought it possible for him to wake up. At the end of the fifth week, Touka’s mother had knelt in seiza beside her husband’s motionless body, hand trembling as she brushed over the jaw she had shaven for him, and made a decision.

Tobirama had been all of eleven years old, then, and he had snatched the pillow from Touka’s hands right before she laid it over her father’s face. He had urged Touka’s mother to leave the room. When Touka had refused to leave, he had thrown open the door and forced her out with a wave of water, and Touka was left outside, hammering at the door and telling Tobirama no, no, she could do it, she _could_ and she _had_ to because—

When the door had opened again, Tobirama had been kneeling by the futon, neatening his uncle’s clothes. Her father’s chest no longer moved, and when she had pressed trembling fingers to his throat, she had felt no pulse. Her eyes had filled with tears then, and Tobirama had knelt there, solemn eyes far too old for his eleven-year-old body, and she had _known_.

He had been kind, her little cousin. Tobirama had been on the battlefield half a decade before Touka had stepped on it, and he had taken assassination missions even before then. By the time he had taken the pillow from her hands, his own had already been covered in blood. She knew what he had been doing and why he had volunteered, and she had clung onto him and cried and he had held her and stroked her hair, and had even held out a hand towards Touka’s mother even though he hated to be touched by anyone outside Touka herself and sometimes Hashirama.

She could never repay that debt. And now—)

He was sleeping. Like her father, he was _sleeping_.

“Madara-sama.”

A man stood at the entrance of the castle, hands tucked behind his back as he bowed. His face would be familiar if Touka could see him clearly through her tears.

“Hikaku,” Madara said. “I’m glad to see that you’re fine.”

“They have treated me fairly, Madara-sama,” Hikaku said, turning to walk beside Madara as they headed inside. 

“I see,” Madara said, voice flat and dull. “Were you present when it happened?”

“Yes, Madara-sama,” Hikaku nodded again. “I witnessed the entire encounter between Izuna-sama and besshitsu-san,” Touka’s nails dug deep into her palms; why wouldn’t they use Tobirama’s _name_? “Would you like to view the records now?” He paused for a brief second. “And I would show it to everyone else as well, if they would allow me to do so.”

Hashirama’s head whirled around, and he opened his mouth. But before he could speak, Madara said, “No.” He folded his hands into his sleeves, shoulders curving inwards. “Not until we see Tobirama.”

Of course he would say that, Touka thought viciously. It wasn’t out of care for Tobirama that he had delayed letting them watch what happened; he just wanted to let his brother live a little longer. Anyone with a mind knew that Izuna’s life would be forfeit the moment Hashirama saw with his own eyes that Izuna had—

“Of course, Madara-sama,” Hikaku said, but Touka barely heard.

Tobirama wasn’t _dead_, she told herself. Mito’s father said that he wasn’t. But he was _sleeping_ but that was as good as being dead, wasn’t he? That was…

They had stopped. Touka shoved her hands inside her sleeves, nails digging into the flesh between the bones of her wrists so she wouldn’t shove everyone out of the way to get to Tobirama’s side. As Mito’s father knocked on the side of the shogi screen, she started counting from a hundred in reverse.

Then the screen slid open, and Touka jerked forward like a puppet pulled on its strings.

Hashirama let out a cry, guttural and low, and ran forward. True to his promise, he fell onto Tobirama. But it wasn’t on his face, and it wasn’t funny, it would never be funny, because Tobirama was pale and still on the futon in a way Touka had rarely seen him. And Touka’s own legs were giving out, her knees crashing onto the tatami as she reached shaking hands forward, clenching around the nemaki that the Uzumaki had dressed him in because Tobirama had never liked things that were so casual and thin, and he—

If not for the bandages peeking out from his collar, he would look like he was sleeping. But he wasn’t, was he? Not in a way that could be easily awoken. Touka grasped blindly for his wrist, turning it over to find his pulse. It beat steadily under her hand, every quiet _thump_ drumming against her fingertip, and that was—

Wait

“Tobirama,” Madara’s voice, sounding more than a little beleaguered, “You better have a good explanation, or I’m going to actually kill you.”

For the first time, Touka thought she might actually agree with—

“Anija,” Tobirama’s voice rang out, steely and clear. “Restrain Hikaku, please.”

Hashirama’s head snapped to the door. Even before he moved, the wooden parts of the shogi screen were already cracking, sharp-tipped branches growing from it. Madara yelled, throwing himself to the side as the branches pierced through Hikaku’s shoulders, right above his armpits, and lifted him off the ground.

At the same time, blades of grass grew from the tatami mats, reaching up and twisting themselves around Hikaku’s ankles. Hashirama made a sound, barely human-sounding, and the grass extended even further, wrapping around calves and knees and thighs.

“What—” Touka started.

“Madara-sama, please—” Hikaku whimpered pitifully, black eyes flickering to the side to try to look at Madara. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

“The three of you,” Madara said, low and calm, “better have a good explanation for this.”

“That’s not Hikaku,” Tobirama said, curt. His eyes were open and fixed on the figure bound by both chains and twisted grass even as he flung the blankets away from his legs. “That’s—”

“You can’t believe him, Madara-sama!” Hikaku shouted, starting to struggle against the twisted straw of his bindings. “You _know _that who I am, and you can’t— you can’t believe him! I’ve warned you that you can’t put him ahead of your clan, Madara-sama!” His skin tore, blood smearing onto the verdant green grass, which dug even deeper in response. “Please remember my warnings, Madara-sama!”

Madara looked at him for a long moment, head tilted to the side. “Yes,” he said finally. “You did warn me.” 

Then he took a single step backwards. Away from Hikaku.

Mito hissed. The glowing chains tangled around his fingers whipped around, winding around Hikaku’s face and neck and tightening the moment they landed. Hikaku choked—

And Madara’s knees hit the ground. Touka spun to stare at him, but looking didn’t make any sense, because Madara was making noises like _he_ was the one being strangled, clawing at his throat as if Mito’s chains were around _his_ throat instead of Hikaku’s. His eyes flashed red, Sharingan spinning into Mangekyou and then back again without seeming to do anything against whatever that was attacking him—

Tobirama rushed past her, a blur of dull green linen, to the Uchiha and throwing himself on top of him. His chakra burst from his body, a physical weight laying on top of Madara, enveloping him entirely even as Tobirama wrapped his arms tight around the man’s shoulders and hunched over him.

“Don’t let it escape!” Tobirama yelled. “You can’t let it escape—”

Hikaku wasn’t there anymore. Caught between Mito’s chains and Hashirama’s grass was a black _thing _that writhed and bulged away from its bindings. It hit the floor and reformed in the shape of a man, except it had no face, only a pair of yellow eyes that narrowed with hatred in Tobirama’s direction. Then its face split into two, revealing white teeth and a tongue as red as blood, and it was more terrifying than any paintings of youkai that Touka had ever seen.

“_AMATERASU!_” Madara roared.

Black fire burst into being, scorching hot. But it hit only tatami and wooden walls, the heavy stench and loud crackling of burning straw filling the air, because the _thing_ was leaping towards Mito’s father. A kunai was flying from Touka’s hand before she knew she had drawn it from her thigh pouch. It landed on the monster’s shoulder and _vanished, _like its flesh had swallowed the metal, but that was enough, because Hashirama’s mokuton was everywhere at once, every piece of wood in the room obeying his command as spikes drove themselves out of wall and floorboards.

They pierced the thing, but it _kept moving_, flesh peeling away from the spikes and Touka had a flash of Hikaku’s blood staining green blades but this wasn’t Hikaku, wasn’t human at all. It leapt around the room, out of the reach of the chakra chains of the two Uzumaki. Its legs had grown new joints, and it leapt like a wolf-spider towards the ceiling.

Wielding two kunai from her thigh pouches with both hands and propelled by rage and fear, Touka threw herself forward and upwards. She stabbed them hard into anything of the monster she could reach and wrapped herself around cold flesh that sent sickening shivers down her spine.

“Madara!” she screamed.

This time, the black fire hit the thing’s arm head-on. Touka felt herself being dragged away by a combination of branches and chains, eyes wide as she stared at the snarling creature as it _ripped off its own arm_. But that didn’t even incapacitate it, because it _grew a new one _almost immediately, scrambling on its hands and knees, yellow eyes upside-down and beetle-like, towards the ranma. 

Tobirama growled. Water burst into being from the air, forming into claws that grabbed at the creature. But its flesh twisted away from Tobirama’s suiton, and it flung itself at the ranma. Paper ripped and, with another inhuman bulge and squeeze of its flesh, the creature slipped out of the room.

Hashirama _roared_.

The last light of the setting sun landed on burnt tatami as every shogi screen and every wall exploded, turning themselves into sharp stakes that flew through the air at the escaping monster. But it dove at the ground, pooling on top of the soil like slick oil, and though the stakes landed rapidly, driving itself into what should be flesh, the oily, shifting darkness simply skittered away from them, and seeped underground.

“Anija!” Tobirama cried. Touka whirled around.

The creature’s ripped arm still burned, but a part of it was flying through the air, clearly having torn itself from the rest. It somehow dodged Tobirama’s barrage of water needles, and landed on Madara’s face. Madara fell backwards, trying to rip it off, but the black flesh squirmed its way _up_ and wrapped around his eyes.

Madara shrieked incoherently, panic overcoming him as he clawed at the black flesh stuck to him. One of Tobirama’s hands sparked with lightning, but he hesitated, clearly not wanting to hurt Madara, and Touka knew that lightning wouldn’t be able to get that thing off. There had only be one thing that had made the monster retreat, and with Madara down—

Touka rushed forward, half-tripping and half-kneeling in front of Madara. She elbowed Tobirama out of the way, and grabbed both of Madara’s wrists on with her hands, pinning them to the tatami. “Brace yourself!” she yelled, and took a deep breath, pursing her lips.

“_Katon_!” The flame streaked out into a single line, skittering along the black flesh. But fire couldn’t be so easily controlled, and Madara _screeched_, loud and inhuman-sounding, as the flames burned his hair and skin, the sickening smell of cooking flesh filling the air.

But the wriggling back thing had loosened its grip. Touka ripped it away from him, holding it far away from her with one hand. She took another deep breath, gathering chakra—

“Amaterasu!” 

Touka flung the now-burning thing away. It landed on the tatami, flopping by itself as if in pain. The straw caught fire as well, more smoke joining the rest in the room, but Touka no longer cared, her eyes widening as she spotted Izuna standing at the doorway, panting as if he had run for three days straight alongside the rest of them.

His eyes were red and black, Mangekyou pinwheels spinning as he practically stepped on her to get to Madara, hands reaching out. “Nii-san!”

“_Out of my way_!”

Touka threw herself to the side by sheer instinct at that tone in Hashirama’s voice. She landed on her stomach just in time to watch as Hashirama picked Izuna up by a single hand on the collar of his nemaki and flung to the side. His other hand was already slapping over Madara’s face, glowing green even before he slid to his knees

“Anija,” Tobirama said, voice tight. Hashirama nodded as if his brother had said a full sentence, his eyes closing as he splayed his fingers out. The tip of each touched the blossoming blisters from Touka’s katon, and they slowly started to subside.

“I would like my castle,” Mito’s father said, enunciating each word slowly, “to not go up in flames.”

A flick of Izuna’s gaze, and the black fire consuming that piece of flesh died down immediately, whipped out of existence faster than if a bucket of soil had been dumped upon a campfire. Madara’s fingers twitched where they were wrapped around Tobirama’s sleeve, and the flames that were eating the creature’s ripped-off arm disappeared as well.

Tobirama’s index finger lifted from Madara’s waist. Air thickened as water gathered, and a scattering of drops started falling around the room, sizzling where it hit the smoking tatami. 

“What,” Izuna said, voice breaking the odd silence that had fallen, “the fuck.”

When Touka turned to look at him, he was sprawled on his back, staring up at the ceiling. The black pinwheels of his Mangekyou still spun, and his chest heaved like he was gulping for air.

Turning away from him, Touka took in the ruined room around them. “Yeah,” she breathed out. “I have no idea what just happened, either.” She let herself flop belly-down onto the floor.

“Well,” Mito’s father said. He walked towards the black spot on the floor where what used to be an arm laid. It seemed to be a pile of burnt flesh now, and it thankfully no longer twitched. He poked it before lifting his head up, staring at the spot in the backyard where Hashirama’s spikes had driven themselves into the ground. 

“Remind me to never anger you, son-in-law,” he said, and he must have nerves of absolute _steel_, because there was a trace of_ mirth_ in his words.

Attention fixed on Madara, Hashirama let out a low, hollow laugh, and didn’t say a word.

Touka closed her eyes and tried to breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The great fun of writing overpowered characters is that they can do shit like _this_ /waves towards the entire chapter. 
> 
> Anyway, Uzu Castle is copied almost directly from [Himeji](https://netmobius.freetls.fastly.net/images-stn-kyoto/101-Kyoto-to-Himeji1.jpg), Japan’s most famous castle. And yes, the Monaco reference I made in my notes of Chapter 11 has more than one meaning: Uzushio is tiny but rich as hell, just like Monaco. 
> 
> I know this chapter is shorter than my usual, but given that the past two have both been over ten thousand words… I give up on even chapter lengths, honestly. The fic _refuses _to obey any attempts I make at disciplining it.


	14. furutsubaki-no-rei

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** Depictions of the aftermath of trauma from someone who vacillates between not knowing that they’re traumatised and being subconsciously aware of it. Also, this is less a warning than an advertisement, but: the MadaTobi is _strong_ in this one.

If tension had a scent, Tobirama would be choking from how heavily it had permeated the room. He hissed out a breath.

Hashirama had his own chakra in a stranglehold, focused entirely on healing Madara’s burns, but Tobirama knew him well enough to identify the twisting rage beneath. Touka was obviously trying to calm herself down, but every gulping breath she took was matched by a spike of fear in her chakra. Mito had almost as tight a grip on her own chakra as Hashirama, but the underlying emotion was not rage, but relief. Izuna’s panic was clear enough that Tobirama skittered away from sensing him too deeply, but his confusion thrummed with every loud pant, still. Hayase was the calmest out of all of them; if not for his clear worry, his chakra would be a sanctuary within the room. And Madara…

Madara’s chakra was the worst of all of them, a roiling maelstrom of pain and fear and confusion and worry, all tied up together and practically shrieking with every low, ragged breath he took. Tobirama closed his eyes, whirling water within himself to build a shield even as he turned his head, pressed his mouth into Madara’s neck. His fingers loosened the long tail and started carding through the strands.

_Calm_, he tried to soothe. _It’s alright now. Calm_.

But he couldn’t even convince himself. The black creature had gone straight for _Madara. _Tobirama had thought the thing was after _Izuna_, because it had lingered around him the most, and Tobirama had wanted Madara to be here because he knew that Madara would want to take vengeance upon anything that tried to hurt his younger brother. But the moment Madara had appeared, lured here by the letter written by the black creature masquerading as Hikaku, by _Tobirama’s _gambit… 

He had miscalculated, and now Madara was suffering from it. He shouldn’t have— he should have tried to deal with the creature himself. He should have at least found out what it was and its plans instead of—

His thoughts screeched to a stop, because there was a sudden blossoming pain on his arm.

“—fucking asshole.” Izuna’s face was inches from Tobirama’s own, Mangekyou spinning dizzyingly. “You _fucking asshole_—”

“Hey, what are you—” Touka started, already scrambling to her feet.

“I thought you were dead!” Izuna yelled, his hands clenching onto Tobirama’s collar. Hashirama made a displeased noise at Madara being jarred, but didn’t try to stop Izuna. “I thought you were— I thought—” Izuna’s head bowed, and his shoulders started to shake. “I thought I _killed you_, Tobirama.”

Oh. Right.

“No one told me anything,” Izuna said, his voice rasping oddly. “_Three days_ and no one told me if you were alive or if you had died. Then I heard Nii-san’s voice, so I ran here— for some reason, they didn’t lock the door—and you’re alive but there was this thing trying to steal Nii-san’s eyes and—” Izuna’s fists slammed into his chest.

“You absolute bastard, I thought you died. I thought…” He trailed off. A few drops of liquid dripped from his chin to Tobirama’s lap. 

Wresting a trembling arm from where it was laid over Madara’s waist, Tobirama reached out. Carefully, he brushed Izuna’s cheek. His fingers came back wet, but no red streaked upon his skin. His breath hitched.

“Don’t think that I can be killed so easily, Izuna,” he tried to reassure. “It takes a lot more than that to truly kill me.”

“That’s not helping!” Izuna shouted in his face, his fist slamming into Tobirama’s ribs again. One of them hit the spot where he had been stabbed, but Tobirama didn’t let himself flinch.

“You were wrong, you know,” he said, speaking the first words that came to his mind. 

“What?” Izuna looked up. The Mangekyou, Tobirama thought, looked very strange when its pinwheels were blurred by tears.

“When you told me that Madara is the most dramatic of your clan, you were wrong,” Tobirama said, resisting the urge to wipe away those tears. “You’re just as bad as he is.”

Izuna’s mouth opened. But before he could say a word, Madara finally made a sound.

He _laughed_. His hand was still clenched on Tobirama’s sleeve with his body pressed up against the whole of Tobirama’s other side, and Tobirama could feel him shake with the chuckles wreaking through him.

“Yeah,” Madara said. His hand reached out blindly, and Tobirama took his wrist and helped shift it to the top of Izuna’s head. Madara ruffled his younger brother’s hair. “You’re just as bad.”

“Nii-san!” Izuna practically screeched. “Why are you taking his side?”

“Oh, I’m pissed as all hell and back about the whole pretending to be dead thing,” Madara said, voice slightly slurred by Hashirama’s hand still over his face. “But I have to admit that he’s right about you, Izuna. You shouldn’t pretend to be all dignified.” His hand flapped on top of Izuna’s head a few more times. “Lying’s bad, little brother.”

“Are we going to talk about that now?” Mito’s voice rang out in the room. The brightness of the tone sent a cold chill down Tobirama’s spine, because he knew from experience that it meant nothing good. “Because I’d really, really like to know what happened.”

“I need to focus,” Hashirama said, deep voice cutting through the air like a knife. “So shut up, Madara. Unless you’re happy to go around with burn scars on your face.” 

“That’d add a little to Nii-san’s look,” Izuna muttered. “He likes being rugged and dirty all the time anyway, and scars might give him an excuse to not clean up.”

“Tobirama,” Hashirama sighed. Tobirama obliged: he smacked Izuna on the jaw with two fingers, sharp enough to make him yelp. “Thank you.” 

Izuna made a grumbling noise under his breath, but subsided quickly. He seemed to have calmed down again, which was a relief, because Tobirama could only deal with so much Uchiha dramatics at a time. 

But he barely had time to enjoy it when Touka caught his gaze with a twitch of her head. She jabbed two fingers in the direction of her own eyes, and then turned her wrist around to point those same fingers at him. Tobirama winced.

So, he might have miscalculated a little more about just how _angry_ the people around him would be regarding his ruse. That didn’t mean that he regretted it, though; it did _make_ that dark presence reveal itself, after all. Still, he wondered if there was another method he could have used that wouldn’t have ended up with him dealing with upset people while accomplishing his objectives.

His mind came up empty. Tobirama bit back a sigh.

“There,” Hashirama said, sounding satisfied as he dropped his hands back to his sides. “That’s your face dealt with, Madara.”

“I’m so glad that you think that my face is something to be dealt with,” Madara said, wry. He straightened, pulling away from Tobirama before he let out a long breath.

A slit of black showed beneath pale lids before he punched Izuna’s shoulder. “What did I tell you about your Mangekyou?”

“Oh, right.” Izuna blinked, and his eyes whirled back to black. “I kind of forgot that I still had it on.” 

Sighing, Madara shook his head. “Forgot,” he muttered. “You _forgot._” 

Then he caught Touka’s gaze over Hashirama’s shoulder. “Thanks for burning my face,” he said, lips curved up at one corner. “And for missing my eyebrows.”

“I can burn those off too, if you want,” Touka offered, chin tipped up in challenge. 

“Forget your eyebrows,” Izuna interrupted, leaning in close enough to Madara that their faces were barely an inch apart. “How are your _eyes_, Nii-san?”

“They’re still in my head, aren’t they?” Madara replied, a hand splaying on his brother’s face as he shoved him away. “So, they’re fine.”

And Madara expressed shock about _Tobirama_ thinking that not collapsing from chakra exhaustion meant that _he_ was fine. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“Alright,” Hashirama said, rocking back on his heels and standing up. “There’s a lot we have to deal with, but first…” He turned to Hayase, who was still kneeling at the big charred spot on the tatami even though he had already sealed and stored the remnants of the creature’s arm. “Is there anything you need to ask us, father-in-law?”

“Not quite at the moment,” Hayase said, meeting Hashirama’s gaze calmly. “I only wish to apologise to Uchiha Izuna-san.”

“Eh?” Izuna said intelligently.

“It was arashi no shihaisha-sama’s request that no one is told about his recovery,” Hayase said. “But it was my idea to let you continue thinking that he had actually died.” He dipped his head. “For that, I apologise.”

“Wait.” Touka’s voice, sharp and incredulous. “His _recovery_?” 

“I told you that arashi no shihaisha-sama’s wound had healed,” Hayase said. “I did not say that I had healed him.” He paused. “Or that it was due to anything the Uzumaki had done, for the matter.”

Tobirama resisted the urge to wince when five pairs of eyes immediately shot towards him. “_Tobirama_…” Hashirama said, sounding pleasant in the way that Tobirama _knew_ meant that he was in trouble. It wasn’t often that Tobirama heard it, but every time he did… he stifled another flinch. 

Hashirama had never scolded or punished him the way Father had. He weaponised disappointment instead, and that was so much _worse_. Especially when Tobirama could feel how upset Hashirama was with him from his chakra. 

“There is plenty that I’m sure all of you have to discuss with each other,” Hayase said, and didn’t seem perturbed when only Tobirama turned to face him. “Would you be amenable to moving to another room? This one is a loss, I’m afraid.”

“Yes,” Tobirama said hurriedly before anyone could reply. “Moving to another room is a good idea. Thank you, Hayase-sama. “

Izuna snickered. “You are in _so _much shit,” he said, grinning at Tobirama out of the corner of his mouth. “I can’t wait to see how you’re going to try to wriggle out of it.”

Tobirama shot him a glare, but he couldn’t reply immediately because Hashirama was talking again.

“We’ll be glad to move to another room, father-in-law,” Hashirama said, wearing the thin-lipped smile that showed just how thin his patience was fraying. “May I presume that you’ll be giving us the results of the investigations concerning what happened here?”

“Of course,” Hayase nodded, already moving to the door. Or, well, the doorframe, given that the shogi screen that separated the room from the hallway no longer existed. “It is clear that incident taking place in Uzushio is but happenstance; whatever that creature is, it involves the Uchiha and the Senju far more than the Uzumaki.” He inclined his head.

“We’ll be glad to hand the investigation’s results to you.”

In other words, Tobirama translated the Uzumaki’s political speech, he would wash his hands off the matter entirely, and it was only Tobirama’s status within the island that let all of them remain here instead of being immediately thrown into the middle of the ocean. He stifled another wince.

“That’s good to hear,” Hashirama said, already following Hayase out of the room.

Now that this matter was settled, Tobirama turned to hiss to Izuna, “I don’t _wriggle_ my way out of trouble.” 

“Uh huh,” Izuna raised an eyebrow. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

Tobirama’s reply was shorted out when Madara, still plastered to his side, wrapped an arm around his waist. He nearly smashed his head against the other man’s when he whipped it to the side. “Neither do I run away from it,” he protested.

“Oh no, I don’t think you would,” Madara said, the grin teasing at the corner of his mouth belying his serious tone. “But you make for a good crutch, Tobirama. Help me up, don’t you?”

Madara didn’t need help: he was injured on the _face_, not his legs. Tobirama let out a beleaguered sigh and started to stand. It was a little difficult because Madara insisted on being a deadweight, but Tobirama _had_ completely healed from the injury Izuna had given him, and he hadn’t used nearly enough chakra to exhaust himself just now.

They made their way out of the ruined room. Mito was already ahead, even steps matching Hashirama’s long strides as they followed Hayase. Touka seemed torn between rushing ahead and lingering behind, eyes darting forward and back constantly. Tobirama caught her gaze and nodded, signalling that everything was fine and she didn’t need to watch over him, and she sighed before she practically ran to catch up.

The new room wasn’t very far. Izuna made some sort of noise under his breath as they walked, but didn’t explain even when Tobirama looked at him. Then they reached the door, and he no longer needed to.

Because Hayase had led them to the room where they had practically imprisoned Izuna. Tobirama had asked him to treat him well and let no harm come to him, and he really should have expected Hayase to do this: a room literally _covered _with ink, seals for chakra suppression covering every inch. There were a few here and there for soundproofing – so that nothing within the room could be heard outside – and one or two for sound-enhancement – so that everything from the outside could be heard with absolute clarity. 

Beside him, Madara inhaled sharply. Before he could speak, however, Izuna shook his head, and Madara gritted his teeth.

Hayase nodded to them as they came in, and waved a hand. Tobirama followed its trajectory and blinked, because there were tables scattered across the room, with food laid on top of six of them, and another two with a small stove, a kettle, a tea pot, and another pot that, Tobirama was sure, contained hot rice.

“Please understand the precautions we must take,” Hayase said. “And I hope that you have no complaints about Uzushio’s hospitality.” Then, before anyone could protest, or even say a word, he slipped out of the door, and slid it close with a final-sounding _click_.

Chakra shuddered through the room. They were locked in.

“Well,” Hashirama said, voice bright. “Guess that means I don’t need to use my mokuton to lock the door, then.” With that, he dropped down to sit beside the stove, and started trying to light it with the flint.

Izuna rolled his eyes and headed over, batting Hashirama’s hands out of the way. He went through a few hand seals before he blew out a breath of… air. He blinked, looked around him, and immediately flopped onto his face. “I _hate_ this room _so_ much,” he groaned into the tatami. “I hate your fucking seals, too.”

Touka slapped a hand across her face, but her shoulders were shaking.

“Uzushio is a very small island,” Mito said, stepping carefully around Izuna’s prone body to take the flint from Hashirama’s hands. “Any kind of disturbance or attack could lead to the entire island being drowned.” With a swift click, she called up a spark, and lit the bit of kindling under the stove. “Given that it is still typhoon season and the first act that started all of this was Izuna’s stabbing of Tobirama…” She trailed off significantly.

“Honestly, I’m just glad that they haven’t declared war on the Uchiha,” Madara said, voice dry. When Mito raised an eyebrow at him, Madara huffed. “I’m not an idiot, okay? I can put the pieces together: incapacitating Tobirama _here_ might as well be an act of war against Uzushio.”

“I am,” Tobirama reminded pointedly, “not incapacitated.”

“Thank you for reminding me, Tobirama,” Hashirama said. With the fire lit, he set the kettle on top of it and started ladling tea leaves into the teapot. Tobirama knew his cue: he lifted Madara’s arm off of him, settling him as carefully as he could on the floor without taking his eyes off his older brother, and stood with his shoulders squared and his hands by his sides.

“Report,” Hashirama barked. “From the time Izuna stabbed you.”

“Yes, Anija,” Tobirama nodded, staring straight ahead. “I had just returned from the beach, and I felt the dark presence that had hovered around Izuna grow stronger—”

“Pause,” Hashirama said. “Explain this ‘dark presence.’”

“A very strange chakra,” Tobirama answered. “Cold like a swamp leech on the skin, and just as parasitic. But it wasn’t anything solid, not until a few seconds before Izuna had stabbed me.”

“When did you first feel it?”

“The first instance was less than two hours after Izuna’s return from the capital, though I did not recognise it at the time. After that, I caught only flashes. The chill of it is anathema to Uchiha chakra in general.” He paused. “Uchiha chakra feels like fire, and the dark presence can be described as the absence of heat. As it is a clear anomaly, I started taking notice. However, I could never catch it, as it flickered in and out constantly. Izuna was never injured by its presence around him, so I did not speak of it.”

“I see,” Hashirama said. “Continue from—”

“Stop. _Please_ stop.”

Hashirama’s eyes darted to the side. Tobirama knew better than to look; he was giving a report, after all.

“Both of you, stop,” Madara said. There was something odd in his voice. “Mito, please get Hashirama out from that position.” The shift of skin against tatami, and then Madara was standing in front of him, black eyes narrowed with something that Tobirama could not identify because his mind had blanked itself out. 

Hands dropped onto his shoulders, and pulled him in. Madara’s body was a pillar of heat against him, but Tobirama knew better than to relax. Not before Hashirama gave the signal. 

“Do you not want me to touch you like this?” Madara asked. “Do you—”

“Tobirama,” Hashirama’s voice interrupted, and he sounded… Tobirama could not finish that sentence. He must be focused. “Answer Madara.”

“I do not mind,” Tobirama said immediately. “But I must be in a certain state of mind when giving a report. You are distracting me from it.”

“A state of mind,” Madara repeated. “How does it feel?”

“Answer Madara,” Hashirama said again.

Tobirama thought. Then he shook his head. “I do not understand the question. Reports must be given with objectivity. To allow emotions to intrude would be inefficient.”

Hands cupped his cheeks. Madara’s forehead touched his own. His shuddering exhale ghosted over Tobirama’s lips.

“Hashirama,” Madara said. “Please. Stop.” Another shaky breath. “It’s hurting you too. I can tell.”

That— Hashirama was _hurt_ whenever he had to receive Tobirama’s report? That was—

“You don’t have to treat your brother like this,” Madara said. “We can just ask questions, okay? It doesn’t have to go like this.”

“But it is the most efficient way,” Tobirama protested. Then he realised his mistake, and scrambled to add, “My apologies. I do not mean to speak without permission.”

Someone gasped. It sounded like Izuna.

“Tobirama,” Hashirama said, and that unidentifiable note in his voice was even stronger now. “End report. At ease.”

He wasn’t _finished_. But his body was well-trained, and so was his mind, and he was sagging in Madara’s arms before he could even protest. And Madara’s hands were in his hair, his lips on Tobirama’s temple, and Tobirama knew he shouldn’t but Madara was so _warm_ even with Tobirama’s chakra sense dulled, and his touches had never hurt, and Tobirama’s hands were on his arms, clinging onto him, and he knew he shouldn’t, because Madara was pulling away—

Oh. Madara had only moved behind him, his arms wrapping around Tobirama’s waist. Tobirama leaned back, seeking out his heat, and Madara kissed the skin above his ear, drawing him even closer even as he urged Tobirama’s knees to bend. 

They collapsed onto the floor together. Tobirama turned his head, burying his face into Madara’s neck because he knew he had done something wrong for Hashirama to have stopped his report like that, and he didn’t want to— he—

Someone was making a keening noise. Hashirama, it was _Hashirama_, sounding like he had been heavily wounded somehow. Then there was a quiet shushing sound – _Mito_ – and Hashirama’s keening cut off.

“Thank you,” Mito said, her voice sounding raw. “Madara, _thank you_.”

“It’s fine,” Madara said, his voice a deep rumble in his chest and Tobirama wanted to _crawl _into it, but that would mean Madara couldn’t stroke his hair like he was doing now and it felt so _good_, which didn’t make any sense because Tobirama had made a mistake somewhere and he had to be punished for it. Even when Hashirama didn’t do it to him, he would do it to himself because that was what made _sense_, and—

“Shh, shh,” Madara said. “It’s not your fault.” Could Madara read minds through touch, now? “You didn’t do anything wrong, okay? You didn’t. We just won’t make you deliver reports like this anymore.”

“It’s the most efficient way,” Tobirama mumbled.

“Knowing what happened is less important than what you felt doing it,” Madara told him. “Cutting that part off makes the report inaccurate.” He kissed Tobirama’s temple again, and one of his hands were around both of Tobirama’s, gently massaging his knuckles. “So, I don’t want you to do that anymore.”

“But, Anija—” Tobirama started.

“No more,” Hashirama said, sounding hoarse. “We’re not going to do that anymore, Tobirama. We won’t.” His exhale sounded ragged. “Madara’s right. Asking questions will be fine.”

He should be angry, Tobirama thought. He had trained for so long to get his body and mind to be entirely focused on Father, to obey him completely and utterly, whenever he was delivering a report, because Father had wanted to know what happened in a very specific way. He had spent so much time figuring out what the way was, and it had been so _difficult_ because every time he got something wrong, Father would get angry at him, and Tobirama hated it when Father was angry because it meant that he wasn’t as smart or as quick as he should be. Because it meant that Father had to waste his time to _teach_ Tobirama differently.

But he had succeeded in the end; had figured it out like he had meant to. Then it had worked even with Hashirama, and Tobirama should be angry because changing this meant so much effort _wasted_.

His eyes were burning for some reason, and there was a weight lifted off his chest, a weight he had never even realised was there before. He curled his body further into Madara, clinging onto him, and Madara was pulling him into his lap, enveloping Tobirama entirely and he kept touching him and Tobirama had never— 

“Just questions,” Madara said. “Those will do, and you don’t have to blank yourself out, because I want to know what you feel when things happen. Hashirama wants to know, too.” His hand carded through Tobirama’s hair. “A good report includes every part, including your emotions. Okay?”

That went against every definition of a report that Tobirama had ever been given. But his chest felt even lighter, and—

“Okay,” he heard himself say.

A heavy _thump_ resounded, like someone had punched a wall. “The gods damn him,” Touka’s voice growled. “I hope he lives the next ten lives as a rat, and he dies each time by being _boiled_.” For some reason, Hashirama laughed at that, voice weak and soft.

“Oh,” Izuna said, sounding like he figured something out. “Gods above, that explains—”

“Izuna,” Madara said. “Don’t.”

A click. “Okay,” Izuna said, oddly subdued.

Tobirama wanted to ask what was going on, but Madara was shaking his head, his hair tickling Tobirama’s cheek. Maybe it was better this way; Tobirama wasn’t entirely sure what _his_ voice would sound like if he tried to speak full sentences, and he wouldn’t be able to answer if asked why.

So, he just breathed. Madara smelled mostly of old sweat with a hint of ash and burnt hair from getting a katon in the face, and it wasn’t _pleasant_ in any form. But Tobirama didn’t want to move away, instead gulping down lungs-full even as one of Madara’s hand settled on the small of his back while the other drew tiny circles on the nape of his neck.

Months ago, Madara had said that he wanted Tobirama to understand what it meant for Madara to be able to touch him like this. And Tobirama had been trying to not understand, trying to skirt away from the knowledge because he didn’t know how to deal with it, but…

But now, it was right in his face, and Tobirama couldn’t even excuse it as Madara’s chakra because he could barely sense it here, in this room. There was only Madara, his body and physical presence, and Tobirama had never felt so warm in his life. Not when Mother had been alive. Not when Hashirama had healed him from the consequences of making mistakes in front of Father. Not even when Tobirama had looked at Father’s corpse and had known exactly what had turned him into that from a living, breathing man. 

Madara was… he was the scent of Mother’s cedar incense, the weight of a silk haori around his shoulders, the smiles of people in the Uchiha compound when they met his gaze, the gentle tugs of fingers in his hair, the sound of an exasperated voice saying his name, the soft press of lips against his temple, the tentative brush of a tongue against his lips. He was quiet questions and relentless fussing and endless patience and he…

If Tobirama had to put it in a single word, he would use _safe_. He had never felt that way, not anywhere or with anyone, but Madara came closest to the meanings he knew was in that word.

Because here, in Madara’s arms, was a good place. A place where he could belong.

“Better?” The question ghosted over the curve of his ear.

Tobirama nodded. Lifting his head, he brushed his fingers over Madara’s face, tracing the edges of where the burns had been. Madara’s eyes slipped shut as he let out a soft sigh, and Tobirama pushed himself up so he could touch their forehead together. 

Being a concubine wasn’t so bad, Tobirama thought, if it meant being _Madara’s _concubine.

Slowly, he pulled away. He made to sit beside Madara, but his husband made a displeased “hn,” before wrapping an arm around his waist, keeping him on his lap. A chin went over his shoulder, and Tobirama realised that he was pretty much trapped.

That was… fine. He cleared his throat.

“Anija?” he prompted.

Hashirama cracked open an eye from where he was lying on Mito’s lap, her fingers carding through his hair. His smile was shaky but true, shining so brightly in his chakra that Tobirama could feel it even through the seals. When he tried to sit up, Mito tugged on his hair, clicking her tongue, and he laughed quietly before listing to the side, letting her support his weight.

“I’m not really good with questions,” he said. “Besides, I think we all have a few that we want to ask Tobirama, and Tobirama has a few, too.” He lifted one shoulder. “Maybe we can take turns?”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Mito said, nuzzling her cheek against the top of his head. “I’d suggest that all of us eat a little while talking, too.” She waved a hand. “The food’s getting cold.”

“Yeah, food,” Izuna said, raising his head. There were creases from the tatami on his cheeks. “That sounds good.”

Touka had retreated to one of the walls with her knees drawn up to her chest, both of which she tended to do whenever she was overwhelmed. Her ragged exhale was very loud in the room. “Let’s just eat,” she rasped. “Questions can come later. Or tomorrow. I don’t know.” She placed a hand over her face. Her fingers trembled in time with her unsteady breathing. “Fuck.”

Looking at her, Izuna sat up. He grabbed the teacup from the table closest to him, and filled it up from the pot which, Tobirama presumed, was filled with already-steeped tea. Then he stood up and walked to Touka, setting it in front of her.

After Izuna had turned away, Touka picked up the cup. She held it with both hands, arms outstretched on top of her knees and head resting on her biceps. Then Izuna put one of the laden tables in front of her, and her chakra spiked with an odd mix of confusion and gratitude and something Tobirama could almost identify as reluctant affection, before she sighed and sipped at the tea he had given her.

Izuna had barely sat down before he got up again. Tobirama closed his eyes, nudging with his own chakra. It took him a few moments to wriggle it past the many suppression seals in the room and into the tatami beneath him. With two fingers resting on the woven straw, Tobirama tracked Izuna’s movements around the room. He was… shifting the tables? Moving them around? 

“Aren’t you _tired_?” Touka said, sounding incredulous and exasperated. Tobirama peeled an eye open.

“Sure,” Izuna said, placing two tables in front of Hashirama and Mito. He nodded to Mito’s quiet “_thank you_,” before looking at Touka over his shoulder. “But I’m an Uchiha,” he said. “It helps us to focus on other people.”

Blinking, Tobirama turned his head. Madara’s lips brushed against his jaw, and Tobirama stifled a small shudder as he whispered, “Is that why you’re doing this?”

“I’m doing this because I want to,” Madara said, eyes still closed. “But Izuna’s right about it helping when we’re focused outside of ourselves. Stops our heads from running in circles.” He tilted his head to the side, rubbing his cheek against Tobirama’s neck lightly. “Does this feel bad?”

“Mmnn,” Tobirama shook his head. “It’s… fine.”

“That’s good,” Madara hummed. “I’d have to let you go so we can eat, though.”

Oh. Tobirama’s eyes dropped down to his lap. Madara’s skin was akin to the expensive ivory that he had seen being sold in the capital the one time he had been there, and though the skin of the knuckles were rough, the back was soft. He idly trailed a vein underneath. “That’s fine, too.”

Chuckling softly, Madara pressed a kiss to his temple. Tobirama’s breath hitched despite himself, and he nearly curled inwards when Madara pulled away from him. But his heat was still there, simply moving to Tobirama’s side, their arms pressed up against each other’s. 

“Mitoooooo.” Hashirama’s voice, pitched high into a whine. “Please?”

When Tobirama turned to look, his older brother was staring at his sister-in-law with eyes wide and lips parted. One of Mito’s hands was wrapped around her cup of chawanmushi, and she raised an eyebrow. Hashirama persisted with that expression, and Mito shoved her small spoon between his lips.

Hashirama’s teeth clacked against the wood. It bobbed between his lips, and he waggled his eyebrows. Mito’s giggle sounded like it had burst out of her as she threw her head back, but her fingers were gentle as she slid the spoon out from her husband’s lips.

“Silly,” she scolded gently, and flicked him lightly on the nose. Hashirama grinned widely in reply, and wriggled even closer so that he could hook his chin over her shoulder.

“Are you two always like this?” Izuna asked, sounding mystified.

“Only sometimes,” Mito answered without taking her eyes away from Hashirama as she fed him another spoonful of chawanmushi. 

“Mm,” Hashirama said, and Tobirama didn’t need to see him clearly to know the shadows tucked in the corners of his eyes. “Sometimes.”

“Ah,” Izuna said, like he had put together another piece of a puzzle. Tobirama glanced at him, and wondered just what that might be.

“Hey,” Madara said. “You want some?” 

When Tobirama turned his head, Madara’s chopsticks were held out to him, a small pile of rice topped with – Tobirama checked the tray – grilled smelt on top. He stared at it before he bit his lip, shaking his head. “I, uh…” he looked down at his own tray, and blinked.

Hah, Izuna _had_ gotten it right: Tobirama had rice and miso on his tray, too, but instead of grilled fish and chawanmushi cooked in oyster broth, he had been served fried tofu soaked in tentsuyu sauce and topped with katsuobushi flakes, and chawanmushi with dashi.

When had Izuna noticed that he had no palate for the kind of rich foods that the Uzumaki liked to serve?

“Alright,” Madara said, turning the chopsticks around and shoving the food into his own mouth. “But you need to finish your tray, okay?”

“I don’t waste food,” Tobirama protested. 

Swallowing, Madara nodded. “There’s more rice in the pot, and you’ll finish _that_, too,” he said. “Since you don’t waste food.”

Tobirama elbowed him on the arm holding his bowl. “Stop fussing,” he demanded.

“I will once I actually get to see you eat,” Madara said, pointedly staring at Tobirama’s still-untouched chopsticks. “So get that food into your mouth already.” 

Huffing, Tobirama picked up his chopsticks. Another protest was already on his tongue – he wasn’t really _that_ hungry – but then he picked up his soup bowl and… hah, _when_ had he last eaten? The Uzumaki brought him food when he was in the other room, of course, but he couldn’t exactly recall eating it as he worked on his notes and research from the scrolls he had with him…

Which were all still in the other room. Tobirama stifled a wince, and made a note to himself to check with Hayase if they had survived Hashirama’s mokuton onslaught. They _should_ have, because the paper on the shogi screen might be torn into shreds from the wooden frames warping into weapons, but they still existed as _paper_. But then again, the straw of the tatami mats had started growing grass blades… The mokuton’s effects on processed plants were mostly unpredictable, and even more so when it was powered by Hashirama’s rage.

He really hoped they weren’t lost. He might remember most of it, but it would take so much time to write everything down again.

Oh, his bowl of rice was empty. Tobirama stared at the bottom of it, slightly surprised, and then at the rest of his tray. Every dish was empty, even the soup bowl, and that was… Well, there was still rice in the pot, and he could always eat plain rice with tea—

“Give it to me,” Madara said. Tobirama handed it over – Madara had a _thing_ about handing him food with his own hand, and Tobirama still couldn’t really understand it – and continued staring at his tray. _When_ was the last time he had actually eaten, and why couldn’t he remember?

… And why was there a grilled smelt on top of his rice?

“_Don’t_ give it back,” Madara said, glaring at Tobirama even as he sat back down. “Eat it.”

“But—” Tobirama protested.

“Eat it or I’ll throw it away,” Madara threatened. Tobirama’s face must have disobeyed him again, because Madara sighed almost immediately. He leaned in, hair tickling Tobirama’s nose, and whispered, “You did a lot today, okay? You can eat the fish.” 

Oh. Tobirama looked down at his bowl. He moved the fish carefully into one of the empty dishes, and peeled off a piece of the belly. As always in Uzushio, the smelt had a lot of roe hidden within, and Tobirama plucked the tiniest bit off and put it into his mouth. He couldn’t stop the tiny noise that escaped him from the taste.

“Knew you would like it,” Madara said. His breath was very warm against Tobirama’s ear. “You don’t have to keep yourself from eating the things you like, okay? You always do so much, and everything you do is more than enough to deserve eating your favourites.” 

That wasn’t true, and Madara was a hypocrite: hadn’t he said before that shinobi was above rich foods like fatty tuna? If Madara, as clan head, would refuse to partake in the best and most expensive things that his clan had on hand because he was a shinobi, then Tobirama keeping away from those same things should make sense as well. 

But arguing right now might make him want to take the fish away, so Tobirama only nodded and tried to not eat too quickly or eagerly.

“I know you don’t believe me,” Madara sighed, his hand briefly brushing over Tobirama’s shoulder. “But we’ll work on that.”

“Okay,” Tobirama said, because he knew he should say something. Madara nodded, and settled back into his seat. His arm was still pressed up against Tobirama’s, rubbing against him even through the three layers of cloth that separated them, and Tobirama tried to not notice too much.

He managed to finish a whole bowl of rice with the fish by eating only a very small piece at the time. It was seasoned with enough salt and sauce that none of the taste was diminished, and it tasted _really_ good like all of Uzushio’s seafood. Tobirama was so incredibly tempted to tell Hayase that they didn’t need to prepare simpler food just for his sake, but…

It wouldn’t do for him to indulge so much. He was a shinobi, after all; he had to be _disciplined_. Having things he liked once in a while, on the rare occasions when he had done enough to deserve them, was more than enough already.

His bowl was empty again, and so was the dish. The sensation of his stomach being completely filled wasn’t strange anymore, not after months with the Uchiha who all _insisted_ on feeding him like he was some kind of malnourished child, but the slight sleepiness that descended whenever he ate was still annoying. He sipped more of his tea so it could wake him up, and then looked up.

Once he was sure that everyone had finished eating – Izuna was the most obviously done, with his tray cleared and table moved away so he could sprawl face-first on the tatami again – he cleared his throat. When their attention turned to him, Tobirama met their eyes in a circle: first Hashirama’s, then Mito’s, Touka’s, Izuna’s, and finally Madara’s. 

“I want to apologise,” he said, forcing the words out of his throat. “I shouldn’t have dragged all of you here and into this. I should’ve found some way to have dealt with the creature myself—”

“Nope,” Izuna said loudly. He sat up in a long, cat-like motion, grabbed his chopsticks, and used them to point at Tobirama. “That’s not what you should apologise for.”

“What,” Tobirama said flatly.

“Like you literally said, the damned thing was hovering around _me_,” Izuna reminded. “And it went straight for Nii-san the moment he appeared. Which means that there’s no way you could’ve dealt with it by yourself, and if you had tried, I would be even more pissed. Again, it was around _me_.” He jabbed the chopsticks forward. “If you’re apologising, I want one for being made to think that I killed you.”

Tobirama blinked. Then, sighing, he made to move his table away. 

“Wrong,” Izuna said. “I don’t want a whole formal put your head on the floor kind of apology.” When Tobirama frowned at him, confused, Izuna laughed. “Just say ‘I’m sorry for making you think I killed you.’”

“I’m sorry for making you think I killed you,” Tobirama repeated flatly.

“Good enough,” Izuna said, and _finally_ put his chopsticks back down. “We’ll make a proper disrespectful Uchiha out of you yet.”

Rolling his eyes, Tobirama crossed his arms. “Do you have a _point_, Izuna? Or questions? Something _useful_?”

Throwing his head back, Izuna cackled. “Yeah, okay, you’re back to normal,” he said, and then waved a hand around the room. “I got what I wanted, so I leave the rest to you.” 

“That’s it?” Madara asked. When Tobirama turned to look at him, he was sitting cross-legged, one elbow on a knee and his head leaning on his fist as he stared at his brother. “That’s _all_ you wanted? Nothing, say, about how he even survived the stab wound?” He paused. “Wait, did Hikaku even write the letter? Or was it that thing?” 

“It was the creature,” Tobirama informed. 

“So… Izuna getting you in the lung was a lie?” Madara arched a brow.

“He did get me in the lung,” Tobirama said. He pointed on his chest, two inches below the collarbone. “He nearly got me in the _heart_, actually.”

“Before all of you Senju started throwing your killing intent at me,” Izuna said, staring at the ceiling, “I genuinely have no fucking idea why I did that.”

“That much was clear,” Tobirama confirmed, nodding. “If you intended on killing me, you wouldn’t have walked into the ocean in the middle of a series of tidal waves just to give me chakra. You would’ve just let me drown.” He cocked his head to the side, thinking. “That might actually be why the black creature compelled you to stab me, actually, because you _didn’t_ let me drown.”

A click of ceramic on wood. “I think,” Mito said, carefully dabbing on her lips with a cloth she had made appear out of nowhere, “we are missing a great deal of situation here.”

“I’d say,” Touka snorted. “Okay, how about we do it like this?” She straightened and squared her shoulders. “Madara, you repeat what the letter you received said, so that Izuna and Tobirama would know.” When Madara nodded, she turned her eyes to Izuna. “Then you give your side of the story.” 

“Wait,” Izuna blinked. “You’d let me go first?”

“It’s fairer this way,” Touka said shortly. “Because it’s clear that Tobirama has more information about the same event.”

“Oh,” Izuna said.

“Between all that repetition and how you’re acting,” Madara drawled, “I’m starting to think that the Senju trains all of its children like soldiers.” He held up a hand. “That was an errant comment that no one should remark upon, because once we go down that topic, we’ll never figure out what actually happened here, which is the priority.”

Rolling her eyes, Touka crossed her arms. “Hikaku’s letter, Uchiha,” she said.

“Madara-sama,” Madara started reciting with his eyes closed, “forgive the rushed nature of this letter, but I do not know how long the Uzumaki will allow my freedom. To put it in short, Izuna-sama stabbed besshitsu-san in the lung. It was neither a spar nor a fight; as far as I can tell, the act was entirely unwarranted. The Uzumaki has assured me that Izuna-sama is still alive and will remain so, but I do not know whether I can believe them. The last sight of Izuna-sama I had was of him being chained up and knocked unconscious by the Uzumaki diplomat Taji. I have asked them of besshitsu-san’s condition, but they will not tell me a word. Please come quickly. Hikaku.” 

He opened his eyes, and sighed. “What? My Sharingan turned on halfway through reading; of _course_ I memorised it.”

“Moving on from _that_,” Izuna shook his head. “That does sound like Hikaku. The handwriting?”

“Hikaku’s,” Madara confirmed, nodding. “Why do you think I believed it so entirely?”

“You would’ve rushed here the moment you knew that Izuna was in trouble, much less Izuna and Tobirama,” Hashirama said, speaking for the first time since they had all finished eating. When Tobirama turned to look, his older brother had his head on Mito’s shoulder and only one eye open. “But I’m glad that you checked that it wasn’t a counterfeit.”

“Honestly, it’d be better if it were,” Madara said, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Because this means that the creature, whatever it is, has been around us long enough to pick up both Hikaku’s way of writing _and_ his penmanship, and I don’t know about the rest of you, but I find that really disturbing.”

“To say the least,” Izuna snorted. “Tobirama, how long did you say that the thing has been around me?”

“Ever since you came back from the visit to the capital,” Tobirama answered promptly. “Which means the beginning of last winter.” He paused, and then clarified. “Eight months.”

“And _no one_ noticed anything?” Touka asked, incredulous.

“I kept feeling its chakra,” Madara said. “But then Izuna said that it was my imagination, and, look, it felt like a youkai, and everyone knows—”

“_What_? I said— _what_?”

Madara stared up at his brother as Izuna stomped over to him. “You said,” he repeated slowly, “that it was my imagination.”

“Nii-san, don’t you find that weird?” Izuna cried. “When have I ever, _ever_ dismissed your feelings like that?” He swept an arm out. “Even when I thought peace was a stupid-ass idea that’s just going to get us all killed, I_ didn’t_ say that it’s a dream, or that it can’t happen, much less that it’s your _imagination_!”

He dug his hands into his hair. “But I remember saying that,” he said, voice soft and horrified. “I said that to you. I would never say that but I told you that and I remember it, and I…” He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. “What the _fuck_?” 

“Come here,” Madara said, tugging on the hem of Izuna’s nemaki. When Izuna collapsed, Madara drew his arms around him. “Say it out loud. Put it into words.”

Izuna took a long, shuddering breath. “I think,” he said, voice muffled by the hands he had over his face, “that thing messed with my _head_.”

“Let me get this clear,” Touka leaned forward. “If that thing is messing with your head, Izuna, you didn’t mean to stab Tobirama.”

“I just—” Izuna took a long, shuddering breath. “Look, the Uzumaki were making up a new title for Tobirama—”

“A new title?” Both of Hashirama’s eyes snapped wide open. “What is it?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Tobirama waved a hand, because he did _not_ want all of them to know about Isobu. If Madara, Hashirama, Mito and Touka were worried and angered enough by him being stabbed by someone they were familiar with, someone they should have known wouldn’t have done such a thing, he wouldn’t want to imagine their reaction to him speaking to someone like Isobu, who was both monstrous in size and chakra levels. “Izuna, please continue.”

“Okay.” Izuna took another breath. He was starting to pull at his own hair, and Madara was futilely trying to get him to stop. “So, I was listening to them make up a new title for him, and I started getting— I don’t know. Jealous? Resentful?” He shook his head hard, leaning away from his older brother’s touch. “It doesn’t make _sense_, because I know how much you hate it when they don’t call you by name, Tobirama.”

“You do?” Tobirama blinked.

“I’m not blind!” Izuna cried. “And even if I am, it’s really obvious! You practically flinch whenever they call you ‘arashi no shihaisha-sama’ or whatever shit they come up with! You _hate_ it and I _know_ that and there’s no reason for me to hate _you_ for it, but I remember hating you for it, I _remember_, but that’s still doesn’t explain why I ended up stabbing you—”

“Breathe, Izuna,” Madara urged. “Stop talking and breathe.”

Izuna’s next inhale was very loud. Tobirama was suddenly glad for the ink on the walls; the thunderstorm that was Izuna’s emotions was painful enough to feel even through the dampening seals. 

“But you do have a reason, Izuna,” Mito said. She didn’t seem to notice the stares aimed at her, her gaze fixed on her teacup. “Think about it, Izuna: my birth clan practically worships Tobirama, and you are right here, having to witness all of it while knowing that, back among the Uchiha, Tobirama is but a concubine.”

“That’s not,” Izuna started.

“Let me finish,” Mito interrupted him. “I’m not saying that you feel it, but there are _reasons_ for you to be resentful. So, if we’re taking your word that you do not feel any of that, and yet you remember doing so…” She tipped her head back and drained her cup. “Whatever that creature is, it manipulates emotions by bringing the worst ones to the forefront, and forces your mind to act on it.”

Silence.

“We have,” Hashirama said, voice bright with false cheer, “officially hit ‘really fucking creepy youkai’ territory.”

“I’m going to say two things to make it even more horrifying,” Madara said flatly. “One, its chakra feels _wrong_. Not just strange, but alien. Like it shouldn’t even belong to this world.”

Tobirama straightened. “That’s— yes, that’s _exactly_ it,” he said. He never would have thought to describe it like that, but it was absolutely accurate.

“Yeah,” Madara said, not even looking at him. “Second, _my_ chakra reaches out for it. Like it’s something familiar.”

Turning, Tobirama _stared_. “If that is the case,” he said, fighting to keep his voice level, “why haven’t you said anything to me about it?”

“I thought it was my imagination!” Madara protested. “And the first time I felt it, Mito said she didn’t—”

Throwing out his hands, Tobirama gave up on sounding calm. “I’m a stronger sensor than Aneue!” he shouted. “I’m stronger than even _you_! If you had felt something like that, you should’ve told me so that I could _check_—”

“Then maybe _I _would’ve been the one to stab you instead!” Madara was raising his voice was well. “Have you forgotten, Tobirama? It didn’t just mess with Izuna’s head, it messed with Izuna’s head so he _nearly killed you_!”

“You can’t use what happened _afterwards_ as your reasoning for not doing something before!” Tobirama argued, barely holding back the urge to reach out to shake Madara. “Why didn’t you _tell me_?”

Madara opened his mouth. Closed it. “Shit,” he said. “_Shit_.”

“So,” Izuna said, voice conversational, “it messed with your head, too, Nii-san?”

Dropping his head into his hands, Madara let out a strangled scream. “_Fuck_!”

“That’s three out of four Uchiha down,” Izuna said, still in that strangely calm voice, “and the last one remaining was the one who got stabbed. Tell me if I’m wrong here, but I think that thing is targeting my clan.”

“I don’t remember our clan records saying anything about angering a youkai,” Madara mumbled behind his palms.

“Well,” Mito said. “All of the legends of youkai have never made any mention of any of them having chakra. Primarily because they’re not living creatures.” She folded her hands in her lap. “So, it is not a youkai, is it?”

“Then what the _fuck_ is it?” Izuna yelled at the ceiling. “And how can it reach into our heads like that?”

“You know,” Touka said, sounding contemplative, “the only way we can find answers is to hunt it down, right?” 

“Hold on,” Hashirama held out a hand. “Before we try to hunt down this thing, we need to figure out some of its motivations. From what we have so far, it came back with Izuna from the capital—”

“That’s where I first felt it,” Madara interrupted, finally lowering his hands. “In the capital.”

Hashirama nodded at him. “Eight months or so ago, it followed Izuna back. Throughout those months, it infiltrated your compound, copied Hikaku’s penmanship and way of writing, messed with Izuna’s head _and_ Madara’s head, though it mostly focused on Izuna.” He was ticking off his fingers. “Then, as a culmination of the efforts of those months, it had Izuna stab Tobirama.” 

He took a deep breath. “I think,” he said slowly, “it’s after the village.”

“Not _everything_ is about the village, Hashirama!” Madara snarled.

“No, listen to me,” Hashirama said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Think about it: if Izuna had really killed Tobirama, and the four of us come here, what would’ve happened?” He tilted his head to the side. “I’m pretty sure that my first act would’ve been to kill Izuna.”

“Thanks,” Izuna drawled. “I feel appreciated.”

Madara slapped him on the back of the head without turning his eyes from Hashirama. “And I would’ve tried to stop you.”

“Then, my father would’ve realised that the two of you fighting on Uzushio is terrible on the island, and started mobilising the Uzumaki to either stop you, or kill the both of you,” Mito picked up the thread, tapping a finger against her bottom lip. “Which might quite possibly end up with both of you dead. Or, at the very least, gravely injured.” She paused. “Izuna would definitely be dead.”

Flopping on the tatami on his back, Izuna let out a theatrical sigh.

“In that event,” Hashirama said, sounding oddly calm and contemplative, “Tobirama and Izuna would _both_ be dead, Madara and I would hate each other, and Uzushio either cuts ties with both Senju and Uchiha, _or_ go to war with both, _or_ they injured us both enough that our clansmen would declare war against Uzushio for attempting to murder their clan heads….”

“With me here, witnessing everything and as the Senju clan heir…” Touka said lowly. “Yeah, I would’ve declared war on both the Uchiha and Uzushio.” She glanced at Mito. “Sorry.”

Mito shook her head. “No, that’s entirely understandable,” she said. “Though I’m not sure what I’d do in that scenario.”

“You’re saying,” Madara’s chakra spiked sharply enough that Tobirama could feel it even through the suppression seals, “that the creature wants war to come back.”

“Like I said,” Hashirama clapped his hands. “It’s after the village.”

“Please smack him for me, Mito,” Madara sighed. Tobirama blinked when she not only obliged, but also ignored Hashirama’s cries of protest.

But Tobirama’s older brother sobered quickly. “There is absolutely no other reason to make Izuna kill Tobirama,” Hashirama said, and turned to smile lopsidedly at Tobirama. “That’s why you pretended to be dead, isn’t it, Tobirama?”

Tobirama shook his head. “I did not think that far,” he said carefully. “I knew it wanted me dead, and so I gave it what it wanted in hopes of isolating it from Izuna and therefore remove its influence.” 

“Oh, yeah, that worked,” Izuna said. “I’m running through my memories right now, and the past three days? Entirely me.” He turned around so he was lying on his stomach. “Which reminds me, Tobirama: _how_ are you not dead?”

“Anija,” Tobirama explained succinctly. 

“Yes?” Hashirama blinked.

“The reason is Anija,” Tobirama elaborated.

“Uh,” Izuna said. “I don’t get it.”

Madara’s palm smacked loudly across his own forehead. “The _seal_,” he said. “The fucking seal you put on Hashirama!” His hand fell back to his lap. “You summoned his regeneration!”

“No, I summoned his _chakra_,” Tobirama said. He wasn’t sure how Madara knew about the seal, but he _was_ pleased that he had gotten it so quickly. “The fact that Anija’s chakra has regenerative properties is a very important side effect, but the seal cannot summon _solely_ his ability to regenerate.”

Which was what Tobirama had been working on during the past three days of supposed convalescence. It wasn’t enough that the regeneration had worked: he wanted to replicate the regeneration through seal-work alone. 

“_Why_?” Hashirama asked. “I mean, I’m glad you did it, Tobirama, because it means you’re alive, but _why_?”

Carefully not looking at Madara – because he had sworn on Hashirama’s life to not mention to anyone about Madara’s encroaching blindness – Tobirama ran through a list of possible excuses. “Uzushio’s typhoons sometimes can’t be dealt with by fine chakra control,” he decided on finally. “The jutsus I need to use have a tendency to be draining.”

“Wait,” Izuna said, entire body jerking upwards. “You mean that you running out of chakra in the middle of stopping a tidal wave is a _normal occurrence_?”

“It doesn’t happen all the time,” Tobirama shrugged. “Still, it’s a regular enough experience that coming here was a good opportunity for me to test out the seal.”

Madara let out a heavy sigh. “Moving on from the fact that there’s always a chance of you drowning when stopping Uzushio’s typhoons—”

“I won’t _drown_,” Tobirama interrupted, insulted. “Breathing underwater and riding the waves take no effort for me; I could have done it and _have_ made it back to shore even when exhausted.”

“That’s not—” Madara pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay. I’ll take your word for it.”

“So,” Hashirama said brightly, “my chakra saved your life, Tobirama?”

“Essentially,” Tobirama nodded. “Thank you, Anija.”

“More to the matter,” Mito said, pouring herself another cup of tea. “Did you tell anyone that you were working on this, Tobirama?”

“Of course not,” Tobirama blinked. “I never tell anyone about my experiments, especially before they are completed.” He cocked his head slightly to the side. “Though I _did_ mention it to Anija, that was entirely because I needed him for the experiment itself.”

“In other words,” Mito said, “you said nothing to anyone else.” When Tobirama nodded, Mito smiled. “That creature isn’t in your head and can’t mess with it, then.” She blew on the top of her cup. “I guess that you’re right, Izuna: the creature doesn’t only want war to return, but it is targeting your clan in particular.”

“Well, fuck,” Izuna said, face slamming into the tatami. Then he continued, muffled, “What are we going to do about it?”

“I’m going to hunt it down,” Touka said. “And Izuna’s coming with me.”

“Me?” Izuna lifted his head up to gape at her.

“You,” Touka nodded. “Hashirama and Madara can’t leave, because they’re the village’s official founders _and _the clan heads.” She pointed at both of them. “Mito is needed to handle the Senju, deal with the daimyo if his representatives come calling, and manage the other clans if they make any kind of move.” Her finger moved towards her. “And Tobirama’s not getting anywhere near the damned thing after it tried to kill him.”

“That’s not sensible,” Tobirama argued. “I’m the strongest sensor here, and we have _just_ proved that the creature can only touch the minds of people who are born Uchiha. If nothing else, I should—”

“You’re needed here in Uzushio,” Madara interrupted him. “If you go, we have to wait months, at which point it will disappear where only the gods can find it.”

“My range covers the _continent_,” Tobirama whirled towards him. “Even if we wait—”

“Then you give me a starting point with your sensing,” Touka cut him off. “And I’ll hunt it down.”

“But—”

“You’re not going,” Madara said, flat. “You might not be concerned with its attempt to kill you, Tobirama, but I am.” He took a deep breath, and his eyes were very dark as they met Tobirama’s. “All of us are.”

“It’s _inefficient_,” Tobirama insisted. “Letting me go will—”

“Remind me again, Tobirama,” Touka’s voice said, silky in a way that Tobirama was horribly familiar with. “How are my tracking abilities?”

“The best in the clan after myself,” Tobirama replied automatically. “But that’s just it—”

“Do you not trust me to find the creature?” Touka asked.

“I do, but—”

“Given that you trust me to hunt it down, then why do you need to go?” Touka asked. “Especially since you’re needed here in Uzushio.”

“And I still need you to explain some of your infrastructure plans back in the village,” Hashirama chimed in, grinning nearly wide enough to make Tobirama annoyed at him. “Which means that you can’t go haring off somewhere that I can’t find you, Tobirama.”

He looked at all of them. Though they were clearly worrying needlessly about him being in danger if he went to hunt down the creature, they had a point: the contract stated that he _had_ to be in Uzushio, and then in the village because Hashirama had no clue about town planning and Madara was still learning the basics. If he could split himself up…

That was an idea, wasn’t it? Clones. Not the useless water ones that collapsed upon a touch, but _solid_ clones that could last for a long time. Then he could put one in Uzushio, station another in the village, and leave with Touka and maybe Izuna to hunt down the creature. Of course, he would need to ensure he knew what those clones were doing. Maybe if there was a memory transference element? Or perhaps he could give them each a Hiraishin kunai and carry one with him all the time so that they could make daily reports?

He would need to start working on that immediately. There was still that seal he was working on, but since it worked to heal him, it was safe enough to use it on Madara as a measure to stop the degeneration of his eyes. Besides, it wasn’t as if he wasn’t used to working on two or more projects at the same time when he was in Uzushio—

If he had solid clones, then he could work on even _more_ things simultaneously, and receive information on what was done afterwards. Why had he never thought of this before?

“I know that look,” Hashirama was saying, the mirth in his chakra growing strong enough to break through the suppression seals. “He just got an idea.”

“Mm,” Tobirama nodded.

“Please tell me it’s not kinjutsu,” Hashirama said.

“It’s not kinjutsu,” Tobirama repeated obediently, even though he wasn’t entirely sure at this point. Hashirama’s idea of ‘kinjutsu’ was very _odd_ sometimes. It was one of the reasons why he stopped talking about his projects until he had finished them.

“So…” Izuna said, sitting up now. “Am I allowed to refuse going with Touka to hunt down this thing?”

“No,” Touka said.

At the same time Madara snarled, “You’re not going either.” Then he snapped his head towards Touka, and practically yelled, “The creature messed with _Izuna’s_ head the most!” 

“That’s exactly why he’s going,” Touka said, voice calm. She cocked her head towards Izuna. “You’ve figured out when you’re being messed with and when you’re not, right?” 

“Yeah,” Izuna nodded. “And shut up, Nii-san, I _am_ going. At the very least, we need an Uchiha on the team, because all of us seem to have forgotten that Hikaku is still _missing_.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Madara huffed, dragging a hand through his hair. “But—”

“Start with the route we took to get here,” Tobirama interrupted, speaking to Izuna. “He was replaced by the creature at around the second or third day of travel, I’m not entirely sure.” His eyes narrowed as he thought. “It definitely wasn’t Hikaku who arrived with us.”

“And… you said nothing?” Izuna asked.

“You did not seem injured by its presence,” Tobirama told him again patiently. “And what would you have done if I told you on the road that Hikaku had been replaced, Izuna? Stab me in the forest?”

“Didn’t you just say that using what happens afterwards to justify what you did before isn’t a good argument?” Izuna shot back, arch. “Never mind, we’ll never stop arguing about this if we keep going.” He sighed. “Looks like I’m not going back to the village with you, Nii-san.”

“I don’t like this,” Madara declared.

“Deal with it,” Izuna rolled his eyes. “You know it needs to be done, Nii-san, because waiting until it comes back and attack us again _isn’t_ an option.”

Letting out a long breath, Madara tilted his head back. He didn’t answer.

“So,” Touka clapped her hands. “You three,” she pointed at Hashirama, Mito, and Madara, “go back to the village. The two of us,” she nodded at Izuna, “set off to find the damned thing once we get some sleep. And Tobirama stays here.”

Tobirama looked at all of them for a moment. “How soon did you say that you’ll be back in the village?” he asked Madara.

“Ten days,” Madara answered. “We figured that we’d take four days to get here, two days to hopefully settle things down, and another four days to get back.”

“You can rest here for longer than two days,” Tobirama said. “Because I can get the three of you back in less than an hour.” He tilted his head, thinking. “I can bring Touka and Izuna to our third-day stop on the road, too.” He gave himself a few moments to enjoy their bug-eyed stares. 

“Izuna injured me with a kunai I gave him,” he explained. “He was unarmed before then. That kunai is a conduit for a jutsu that lets me move through space-time to instantaneously appear anywhere I have placed a marker. And I made markings all along the road here.” He folded his hands in his lap and let the smug smirk curl his lips.

“Coming here takes a week every year,” he said. “Now it won’t, because I have the Hiraishin.” 

Mito made a sound like she was choking. “Tobirama,” she said. “Little brother, what are the _only_ two rules of sealing?”

“Do not interfere with time, and do not interfere with nature,” Tobirama recited. He cocked his head. “But why not? I tested the Hiraishin; it is perfectly safe. It works on the same principles as summoning, actually, though it doesn’t touch the realms where summons live.”

“A _space-time_ jutsu,” Mito said, a shaky hand rising to cover her face. “Because you think coming to Uzushio takes too long.”

“I didn’t come up with the idea because of that.” Tobirama had to correct that notion. “I wanted to become faster than even the Sharingan can catch.” He turned to Izuna. “Which means that it was first born from trying to kill you. I suppose it’s rather ironic that you ended up using the kunai to try to kill me instead.”

Izuna slowly dragged his hand through his hair. “Uh… Thanks for reminding me that we were trying to kill each other not so long ago, I guess?”

“You’re welcome,” Tobirama replied shortly, and ignored Izuna’s choked laugh. “In any case,” he shifted his gaze to Madara, who was still giving him a wide-eyed stare, “you’re too heavy for me to drag around when you’re tired. The Hiraishin makes that a lot easier. That’s why I started working on it after the peace agreement was signed.”

“You—” Madara’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “You found a way to jump through space and time because you don’t want me to walk when I’m tired. Because that _one_ time when I—” He cut himself off.

“It has a lot of uses,” Tobirama shrugged. “But essentially, yes. I specifically made sure that it can carry more than one person, though I would need to be touching whoever I bring with me.” He blinked, pushing his chakra through the seals to try to reach Madara. “Is it… that surprising?”

Madara’s exhale was very, very loud. Turning around to fully face Tobirama, he clasped his face with both hands, and rested their foreheads together. “Has anyone,” he said softly, his thumb gently tracing the red lines on Tobirama’s cheeks, “_anyone_ told you that you’re a wonder?”

“I am not,” Tobirama protested. “I just did as I should.”

“Like you should?” Madara asked.

“Yes.” Tobirama didn’t stop his hands from rising to curl around Madara’s wrists. “You are my husband, aren’t you?”

Madara’s laughter seemed to burst out of him with a force that made his entire body shake. His arms wrapped around Tobirama’s shoulders, pulling him in, and the kiss he placed on his temple was gentle and fierce at the same time.

“You are a wonder, that’s what you are,” Madara whispered, and there was a weight to those words that Tobirama didn’t understand. “And I’m the luckiest bastard in all of the continents that exist, because you are mine.”

Tobirama closed his eyes. _Yes_, he admitted quietly to himself. _Yours_.

“I told you, Touka,” Hashirama’s voice rang out, sounding smug. “There is absolutely nothing to worry about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, yodelling: I FUCKING LOVE MADATOBI!!!
> 
> Also, there is so much plot here it’s ridiculous and I am not sorry. 
> 
> Yes, a huge part of this fic is “Madara fixes the Senju and pre-emptively solves all of the problems of present-day Konoha by being sane and himself.” I’ve said it to one person in the comments, but my entire interpretation of Madara is based on him being an utterly tragic figure because he had so much _potential_. Look at how the legacy he had left the Uchiha _and _Konoha; almost everything of present-day Konoha can be traced back to him, after all.
> 
> This fic is really taking all that potential and giving Madara chances to make _good _choices, and looking at the ripples that can occur. The plot might seem to revolve around Tobirama, but we wouldn’t have gotten here without the choices Madara has made, small as they might seem. This entire fic _is_ about how small things eventually can have great impacts, after all.
> 
> PS: I love all of you and your comments <s>and everybody in this bar</s>. I really, really appreciate them every single one, and they keep me writing. <3!!!


	15. to prepare for the future’s arrival

The inside of Uzu Castle, Madara noted wryly, was just as ostentatious as its outside. 

Every inch of the floor was covered by dark wood scrubbed and polished to a shine that caught even the barest glimpse of moonlight streaming through the ranma above. The walls were heavy and thick enough that Madara had to strain to hear sounds coming from the rooms as he walked down the hallways. And those walls weren’t bare, either: paintings hung on almost every one, enough of them marked by an attention to detail that only the Hyuuga were capable of that they were not merely decoration, but a declaration of wealth. 

At least they had enough taste to keep the gold and silver outside.

Still, the Uzumaki’s flaunting of their money wasn’t nearly as irritating as their presumptions: they had kept Tobirama in his ‘usual’ room on the first floor, close to the entrance, but even Hashirama and Mito had been kept in the guest quarters, an entire wing away. The diplomatic envoy Uzumaki Taji had given some sort of excuse as there not being rooms closer to Tobirama that were closer for them to use, but given the utter dearth of chakra signatures in this area, Madara severely doubted that explanation.

They just wanted to keep Tobirama away from the rest of them. Was it because they feared for his safety, thinking that the black creature would return to attack Madara and the others? Or, the more unpalatable option, they didn’t trust the Uchiha and the Senju around their precious _arashi no shihaisha-sama_, no matter that the former was the clan to which he had sworn his allegiance, and the latter was the clan of his birth?

Maybe the alliance with Uzushio once the village officially existed would be less of a foregone conclusion than Madara had thought.

Walking down the final hallway towards Tobirama – there had been a truly unreasonable number of them – Madara cleared his mind. He shook his head at the candlelight he could see shining through the paper of the shogi screens. Night had fallen hours ago, and even Izuna and Touka had fallen asleep despite their anxieties about starting their hunting trip in the morning. But, of course, Tobirama was still awake.

He rapped lightly on the doorframe. When he received a soft “come in, Madara,” he slid it open.

As he had expected, Tobirama was sprawled on his stomach on the tatami. The chabudai beside him was covered in scrolls, and though Madara could recognise a few of them from those retrieved from the room Hashirama had ruined, they were greatly outnumbered by a bunch more than he couldn’t recognise. And all of them were covered in ink: either drawings of seals, or the chicken-scratch scribble that Tobirama called handwriting.

“You’re going to ruin your eyes if you keep working by candlelight,” he said, coming down to sit beside the younger man.

Tobirama lifted his head, the sides of his lips curving into a small smile before he shook his head. “It’s fine.” Then, before Madara could nag him further – yes, he _knew_ that he nagged, but he couldn’t help himself – he finished whatever sentence he was writing, and placed his brush back into its stand. A twitch of his finger to dry the ink, and he rolled up the scroll.

“You should be sleeping,” Tobirama said. “There’s bound to be plenty for you to do in the village tomorrow when you arrive.”

“I can say the same about you,” Madara snorted, reaching out a hand to slide through Tobirama’s white hair. “You seem plenty busy here in Uzushio even when there are no hints of typhoons.”

Tilting his head, Tobirama rubbed his cheek against Madara’s wrist. His eyes were very bright as he said, “I make efficient use of my time.”

“Never had a doubt about that,” Madara said, smiling involuntarily as Tobirama’s lips brushed over his pulse point. “That’s why I worry about you so much.”

“Mm?”

“You think that eating and sleeping are inefficient uses of your time,” Madara pointed out, shifting his wrist so he could press the tip of Tobirama’s nose with a thumb. “That’s usually a recipe of disaster, especially if you end up having to deal with typhoons after working for too long.”

“The seal on Anija won’t let me collapse from chakra exhaustion,” Tobirama said, and Madara supposed that was meant to be a sort of reassurance. Then Tobirama blinked, straightening. “Ah, I almost forgot.”

“Hn?” Madara blinked.

“Do you trust me?” Tobirama asked.

Despite himself, Madara laughed. “I’m heading back to the village using your jutsu that crosses time and space, something that Mito is still muttering that it shouldn’t exist and breaks the most important laws of sealing,” he teased. “_And_ I still haven’t seen for myself that it works.” 

“I can demonstrate,” Tobirama said, starting to stand. “With your sensor abilities, it will be simple enough for you to check—”

“No need,” Madara interrupted. With his hands on Tobirama’s shoulders, he urged him to sit back down. “I trust you to not bring any harm to me. Or anyone that I care about.” He wasn’t the only Uchiha that Tobirama would be carrying as a passenger on his Hiraishin, after all; Izuna would be coming along as well.

Tobirama looked away, clearly thinking. “I… might be asking more trust from you than that,” he said hesitantly. Madara waited patiently, but whatever he had expected Tobirama to continue with _wasn’t_ what he actually received:

“I lied to Anija.” Tobirama paused. “Or, well, to all of you, really, but mostly to Anija.”

“Alright,” Madara said carefully. “Do you lie to Hashirama often?”

“Of course not,” Tobirama said, clearly indignant. “Sometimes Anija gets angry because he thinks that I lied, but that would be _his_ fault, not asking the right questions, so I couldn’t give him the answers that he wanted. But I’ve never _directly_ lied to him.” Still facing the nearby wall, his eyes darted to the tatami. “But I did so two days ago.”

During their long discussion, then. Madara nodded. “Alright,” he said. “So, what _did_ you lie to him about?” 

“The reason why I created the seal that summons his chakra,” Tobirama muttered, barely loud enough to be heard. 

“So,” Madara said, “it wasn’t because you wanted to be more careful when dealing with Uzushio’s typhoons, then?” When Tobirama nodded, Madara’s eyes narrowed. If that was the case, he suspected that he already knew what was coming. “Why did you lie to him?”

“Because you made me swear to not mention the state of your eyes,” Tobirama said, finally turning to face him. “It’s technically _your_ fault that I lied to Anija, Madara.”

“I’d take that blame gladly,” Madara said. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was suddenly very dry and there was a growing lump in his throat. “But, Tobirama… You made that seal for… my eyes?”

“Essentially,” Tobirama nodded. He must have noticed Madara’s staring and misinterpreted it, because he hurried to explain, “When I first ran the diagnostic jutsu over your eyes, I noticed that the ocular nerve was dying, and so were the chakra coils around it. The Mangekyou’s corrosive chakra essentially eats away at those cells, and when I sat down and thought about it, I realised that it behaves somewhat like poison.”

“Poison,” Madara repeated, a little dazed.

“Yes,” Tobirama nodded. “Anija has never been affected by poison, because his chakra simply replaces the destroyed cells by quickly multiplying the healthy ones. That’s how he heals himself in general: _very _rapid regeneration.” He paused. “I have a theory that Anija’s regeneration is actually a part of his mokuton, because that’s what his chakra does to plants as well: it makes them grow extremely quickly, and that growth follows the template that’s contained in every cell.” He cocked his head, thinking. “Some of the books I received from the countries over the great oceans call it DNA.”

Madara had a feeling that parts of the explanation were rushing over his head. He rubbed a hand over his nose and mouth. “Let me get this explanation clear,” he said. “Hashirama’s chakra works by making things grow, including his own cells.” Tobirama nodded. “And the only reason why he’s not a lump of, I don’t know, tumorous flesh is because the regeneration follows this DNA template.”

“That’s the gist of it,” Tobirama nodded. “You’re getting it much quicker than Anija ever did.”

“I do my best,” Madara said, wry. “But I still don’t understand what any of this has to do with my eyes.”

“Your Mangekyou is like poison to your eyes,” Tobirama started.

“Wait,” Madara held up a hand. “That doesn’t make sense. I know that my eyes are dying because of it, but that’s my own chakra that I’m channelling to use the Mangekyou. How does _that_ end up as poison?”

Tobirama’s brows creased for a moment. It made his nose scrunch up, and Madara resisted the urge to press the tip, keeping his hands by his sides. He probably shouldn’t distract him.

“Well,” Tobirama said slowly. “It’s a mixture of processes that I’m not sure how to explain, but… hm, your chakra is akin to fire. Not only a fire affinity, but fire itself.”

“Mm,” Madara nodded encouragingly.

“When you channel it into your eyes for the specific purpose of the Sharingan, or the Mangekyou,” Tobirama continued, “the flames burn very hot.” His frown deepened. “Perhaps ‘burns’ would be a better description. The Mangekyou literally burns your eyes out.”

“That,” Madara tilted his head to the side, “makes a lot of sense.” He had fire affinity, after all, and wasn’t he telling Hashirama about the dangers of fire running unchecked less than a week ago? His chakra burning up their own coils made perfect sense: it was akin to having a fever, except contained behind his eyes.

That would explain the headaches as well. 

“Burning it is then,” Tobirama nodded decisively. “In any case, your eyes continue to deteriorate because you don’t have the regenerative properties that Anija does. The damage that the Mangekyou inflicts doesn’t repair itself.”

The pieces clicked together. “You’re trying to give _me_ Hashirama’s chakra,” Madara said, barely keeping himself from shouting. “You made the seal to summon his chakra so you can give it to _me_ to heal my eyes.” 

“That’s the first step,” Tobirama said, running a hand over his hair. “The second step is to ensure that the regenerative properties of his chakra would work on someone else. Then, I will have to modify the seal to ensure that Anija’s chakra work like it should on tiny cells like those of the ocular nerve and chakra coils, because the regenerative process is slightly different for those.” 

He clicked his teeth together, breathed in sharply through the nose, and continued in a rush: “The last step is to replicate the regenerative properties using seals so that this method isn’t entirely reliant on Anija.” 

Something must have shown on Madara’s face, because Tobirama kept going, “You and Izuna might be the only ones among the Uchiha to awaken the Mangekyou in decades, or maybe centuries, but that’s not a guarantee that no other Uchiha would awaken it.” Another of those breaths that Madara suspected he used to steady himself. “If the Mangekyou _always_ degenerates an Uchiha’s eyes, then we can’t always depend on Anija being alive for a cure.”

He swallowed hard. “Anija’s regeneration doesn’t guarantee immortality. Besides, it just doesn’t make _sense_ for a method of healing to be entirely dependent on one person. If there is a way to give _anyone’s_ chakra the regenerative properties that Anija’s has, it’ll be very useful.” He stopped, clearly having noticed that Madara hadn’t said a single word. “Madara?”

“You—” Madara swallowed hard, and tried to calm the trembling of his fingers. “You’re coming up with a way to not only heal _my_ eyes, but that of my clan’s. Even the eyes of Uchiha who haven’t been _born_.”

“Well, yes,” Tobirama said. “Medical ninjutsu cannot be confined to a single person. If it exists, then it should be useful for—”

Madara couldn’t hold back any longer: he reached out and took Tobirama’s face between both of his hands, interrupting him. 

“My clan,” Madara whispered. A long, shuddering exhale wrested out of him, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut. “The clan whose eyes that you had been taught to fear your entire life. The clan who were your enemies. The clan who killed your little brothers.”

Tobirama went very still. Madara knew he should pull away, should let Tobirama have some space to himself, but he wanted, more than anything, to cling even tighter. 

He compromised by tensing up and not moving an inch.

“I haven’t forgotten,” Tobirama said, his voice very soft. “But all of you have forgiven me for the deaths I have dealt.” His fingers trembled as he sank them into Madara’s hair. “Didn’t Tsurugi-san and Shiomi-san say that you remember every Uchiha life, and every Uchiha death? But none of you showed me hatred. Even though most of your shinobi avoid looking at me, no Uchiha has ever harmed me.”

Madara opened his mouth, and Tobirama shook his head.

“What Ryuuon and the others did was _nothing_, especially after you stopped them.” His swallow was very loud. “I was meant to be a symbol of subjugation, but you gave me the privilege of having your surname. You… _All of you_, you treated me like an Uchiha, and gave me nothing but kindness.”

Looking down, Madara took Tobirama’s hands into his own. His skin was so pale, nearly the shade of new-bloomed magnolias in spring, and his veins were stark on the wrist. Madara traced the line of one, elegant finger down to the fragile bones beneath the palm, and let out a shuddering breath when he felt Tobirama’s pulse beat steadily against his own skin.

Hashirama had said: Tobirama didn’t know how he had been treated his whole life was wrong. And Madara had seen it himself: Tobirama asked for tofu when he loved fish, and hesitated whenever there was kombu and katsuobushi in his ochazuke. He had been fighting for the right to exist for so long that when he wasn’t required to do so, he thought of it as _kindness_.

“Madara?” Tobirama asked, uncertainty creeping into his tone.

For all the power that these hands could wield, the skin bruised so easily, and the bones could still be so easily broken. Madara lifted them, and pressed Tobirama’s knuckles against his own lips.

“You saved my clan from starvation by giving up your name,” he reminded, keeping his voice soft and low. “You didn’t have to, but you did.” 

“What is the worth of a name in comparison to a life? To tens of lives?” Tobirama asked, turning his head away again.

“Shall we count them, then?” Madara asked. “The number of Senju lives lost weighed against the number of Uchiha. Shall we set the weight of the grief borne by both clans on a scale, and declare a winner?”

“That’s not possible,” Tobirama shook his head. “And,” the smallest of smiles teased at his lips, “there is no pride in winning such a contest.”

“Exactly,” Madara nodded. “Listen, Tobirama: when Tsurugi and Shiomi told you that we set a pyre to the bodies to burn, they forget the most important part.”

“They did?” Tobirama blinked.

“Mm.” Another gentle stroke across those callused knuckles. “When the coffin closes and the flames are lit… we do our best to forget the memories of the corpses. We tell stories of their lives for seven days and night,” even before he and Izuna had awakened the Mangekyou, the clan had been keeping the pyre fires going for that long, “because _that’s_ what we want to remember. Not the moment of their deaths, but the whole of their lives.”

The Sharingan remembered, Tsurugi and Shiomi knew. But they never had it activated, and so they could not have realised: the Sharingan’s memories could be controlled, and that was what record-keepers like Hikaku excelled in and helped the rest of the clan to do. The entire clan would drown in grief if they had not found ways to bring the happier, better memories to the fore, to build shields of them to keep the grief and rage at bay.

When they could not… when an Uchiha shinobi with an activated Sharingan no longer had enough happy memories to keep the worst ones away, or if those sweet memories weren’t strong enough to push away the madness that came from grief and rage… That was when they died. Even while they still breathed, they were already dead to the clan.

“Oh,” Tobirama breathed.

“For every memory of the deaths you have caused,” Madara continued, “we have a memory of the irrigation system you designed, the lake you built, and even the new bathhouse that now stands in the compound. For every single reminder that you have caused us grief with the deaths at your hands, we look around us and realise that you have made our lives better.”

Tobirama’s eyes fell shut. “How can an irrigation system and a lake and a bathhouse compare to—”

“Memory does not work on scales,” Madara reminded. “Senju Tobirama might have caused death, but _Uchiha_ Tobirama brings water, the necessity of all life, to us.” Leaning in, he brushed a gentle kiss over Tobirama’s temple. “For every memory I have of the Senju’s White Demon, I have a dozen of Uchiha Tobirama, who gives to my clan even when he has no reason to do so.” 

No Uchiha shinobi aside from himself, Izuna, and Hikaku would meet Tobirama’s eyes. It wasn’t merely avoidance, but a method of trying to hold onto their sanity: they were reminded at every turn in their own compound about the betterment of their lives that could be credited to Tobirama, and it jarred against the lives that the Senju White Demon had taken. 

They could not look at him, because they had not found the strength to entirely overwrite the White Demon with Uchiha Tobirama. They turned their heads away, because their Sharingan remembered death, their eyes reminded them of life, and the conflict between the two was still too difficult to resolve.

But it would be in time, Madara knew. Hashirama’s mokuton might help things grow, but it was Tobirama’s hands that brought life to everything they touched. Once the village was built and every Uchiha shinobi looked upon it and saw the marks of the Uchiha Tobirama writ on the streets they walked… The Senju White Demon would be consigned to oblivion.

Squeezing Tobirama’s hand lightly, he freed one of his own to cup the back of his neck. Their foreheads touched, and he breathed the next words across Tobirama’s lips: “What cause have I to remember the White Demon, when everything I see reminds me of the gift that has come to my clan?”

Breath hitching in his throat, Tobirama pressed his eyes shut. “Once I thought you a wildfire, and I was afraid that you would burn Anija to ash.” He was starting to tremble. “I remember that, I do, but now you’re _here_ and all I can feel is— you’re a hearth fire, Madara. You’re—” He fell silent, biting onto his own lip, and shook his head. 

“Oh,” Madara breathed. He turned his head, pressing a kiss to the corner of Tobirama’s eye. There was no salt of tears, but that didn’t mean anything. “I’m glad,” he said, because he could think of nothing else.

“I didn’t _mean_ to replace your memories,” Tobirama said. “I wasn’t trying to— make all of you forgive me. I was—” His shoulders lifted. “I was trying to be _useful_.”

That word. Madara was really starting to fucking _detest_ that word. How could an entire life, an entire _person_, be measured according to their usefulness to something supposedly greater than themselves? Where was love and protectiveness? Where was _family_?

Izuna might define himself according to his role as the second surviving son and clan heir, training and shaping his skills to cover Madara’s faults, but none of that had anything to do with why Madara loved him. Izuna could be nothing but a complete leech on the clan’s funds and a shame to the main house, and Madara would _still_ love and do everything he could for him.

He stifled his rage with another soft stroke across Tobirama’s cheek.

“You’re not only useful, Tobirama,” he murmured. “You’re _important_, and you don’t have to do _anything_ to earn your place.”

“But I want to,” Tobirama blurted out. “I can do it so I will, and that’s the work I must do. And you told me that I’m part of the main house and the duties of those within it is to serve the clan, so I will serve, and that is my duty. But I—” His fingers traced Madara’s hairline, nearly reverent as he brushed a thumb over the side of one eye. “I choose to.”

_For you_, he didn’t say, and Madara heard anyway. He gritted his teeth, but he couldn’t stop the raggedness of his breath. He pulled back slightly, just enough for to meet Tobirama’s gaze, and cupped his cheek. “May I kiss you?”

When Tobirama stared, lips parting, Madara let out a soft laugh, wreaked by his own unsteady breaths. “You don’t have to say the words for me to know,” he murmured, following the red line over the right cheek with his thumb. “So, may I kiss you?”

White lashes fluttered. Tobirama licked his lips, and Madara tried to not fixate on the flash of pink tongue against pale skin. “I’m still—” He started to shake his head. “I don’t know how.”

“You’re a fast learner,” Madara said. “And you won’t learn from anyone else, will you?” Not if he had anything to do about it. He was an Uchiha, after all; like the fire they were so aligned with, they marked everything that they touched, and claimed everything that was theirs. 

But he wouldn’t destroy. _Hearth fire_, Tobirama had said, and Madara understood that perfectly. To someone like Tobirama, whose body had always run cold and who was born in a warzone even though he might not recognise it as such…

Madara was the heat of the hearth, of _home_ and _safety_. He was – he hoped – the warmth of _family_ that curled together around the fire at the end of the day.

Then he had to stop thinking, because Tobirama nodded, and leaned in. Madara touched their lips together – gentle, tentative, and entirely unlike the clumsy crash that was their first kiss – before he slowly drew Tobirama’s bottom lip between his teeth. The smallest of nibbles, and he slipped his hand to the nape of Tobirama’s neck, sinking his chakra into that tenketsu point.

Tobirama gasped. He pulled away, but before Madara could wonder if he had done something wrong, Tobirama scrambled forward and climbed into his lap. His knees sank into the tatami by Madara’s sides as his hands cupped Madara’s cheeks. Then their lips were touching again, Tobirama’s mouth opened, waiting and wanting.

And Madara obliged, darting into that welcoming heat. He licked across the roof before teasing against Tobirama’s tongue, drawing him out. Tobirama whined, low in his throat, and fell forward. He had grown an inch but he was lanky still, without the thickness of muscle that age would eventually give him, and it was easy, so easy, for Madara to wrap his arm around his waist and kiss him back.

Every touch lingered and every breath seemed to burn. They parted for breath, and Madara barely had time to murmur, “Through your nose,” before Tobirama was on him again, kissing Madara and dragging air from his throat even as he tugged and tugged on his hair. He kept making those _sounds_, each one of them sending shivers down Madara’s spine and pooling in his groin. 

Their hips plastered together and Madara could tell just how much Tobirama’s body wanted more, _needed _more, and he knew his own wanted to give it to him. It would be so simple to slip his hand through the loose cotton nemaki Tobirama wore, to wrap around him and stroke until he could see for himself and sear into his Sharingan the way Tobirama looked when he was lost in pleasure that Madara’s hand had given to him.

Not yet, Madara thought. This kiss had taken them near a year, and going further would take longer yet. He could be patient and he would wait, because with Tobirama here in his arms, trembling and _wanting_, his cool chakra sweeping under Madara’s skin rapid like white water, he knew:

He would never take a wife. Not for anything. Not even if Tobirama himself insisted. 

Because Tobirama’s hand might be clenching his collar, but he might as well have wrapped it over his heart. Each finger a spring, his palm the delta; he was the river and Madara was the land that he had carved. 

Slowly, they pulled apart. Tobirama’s chest heaved for breath, and Madara knew he was panting as well, but he cared not for the spots bursting into being at the edges of his vision. He tilted his head and pressed his face into Tobirama’s neck, gulping down his scent: the salt of sweat and a hint of the breeze above the Naka, like the river itself lived underneath Tobirama’s skin, soothing the ever-burning flames beneath Madara’s.

“Go on,” he murmured. “Do what you need to do.” He smiled against Tobirama’s skin when he felt the hitch in his pulse. 

“It’s still a prototype,” Tobirama said, sounding almost apologetic. “It doesn’t work as fast as Anija’s regeneration, because I’ve modified it to work on something as tiny as the ocular nerve, and that is always slower.” Another ragged breath. “It’s not perfect either, because it’s still dependent on his chakra and it shouldn’t be.” 

His hand sank hesitantly back into Madara’s hair, carding through the strands. “But I know that it works, and it won’t worsen the degeneration. It’s safe, and—”

“Mm,” Madara hummed, tracing a slow circle over Tobirama’s nape and tugging lightly on the small hairs there. “I trust you, so… my eyes are yours to do with whatever you like.” 

He was an Uchiha, and it was the greatest show of trust he could give. Tobirama was an Uchiha, too, and he understood perfectly.

“Oh,” he breathed. “_Madara_.” He said his name like it was a prayer, a benediction, and his hand clenched so tight over Madara’s sleeve. Madara hummed again, splaying his hand over the back of Tobirama’s ribs, right over his quick-beating heart. 

Fingers rose slowly. Madara pulled back, and closed his eyes. He could feel the seals blossoming into being with each tentative stroke, each one like the touch of a feather against his lids. Then the chakra sank in, and Madara _shuddered_, head dropping back before he realised it.

It had been years since his eyes had started aching even when he wasn’t using the Mangekyou, long enough for him to get used to the constant discomfort. Now it was _gone_ and his nerves had no idea what to do with themselves, sending his brain sparks of phantom pain that was quickly drowned out by the mixture of cool water and new-bloomed leaves rushing through his coils. 

Like a forest spring, he thought dazedly, the water flavoured by the leaves of the mint trees growing along the banks.

Tobirama might say that it was Hashirama’s chakra at work, but it still felt like _Tobirama_. Fitting, Madara thought, because it wasn’t Hashirama who was healing him.

“Open your eyes,” Tobirama whispered.

Slowly, Madara did. And inhaled sharply.

His vision was still blurred – the chabudai he could see over Tobirama’s shoulder had no definition – but he could see the sharp tips of the red marks on Tobirama’s face, and the exact curves and whorls of his ear, and even the strands of his hair were separate instead of streaks blurring into each other.

Fitting, too, he thought breathlessly, that the first sight he saw with his healing eyes was Tobirama. 

“It works.”

Tobirama smiled, wide enough to crease the sides of his eyes, and Madara couldn’t help but kiss him again. Even gentler this time, nothing more than the slide of their lips together and the arch of Tobirama’s back under his fingers.

“The seals will stay until the damage is entirely undone,” Tobirama said. “Then they’ll fade away by themselves.” His nails tentatively scraping across Madara’s scalp, and it was more than a little distracting.

“Mm,” Madara said.

“Don’t strain your eyes too much over the next two months,” Tobirama continued, now nuzzling his cheek against Madara’s temple. “Not until I can check on them regularly and figure out a way to stop the Mangekyou from degenerating your eyes entirely.”

Huffing out a breath, Madara tilted his head up and brushed a kiss over Tobirama’s jaw. “Don’t remind me that I won’t get to see you for two months after tonight,” he grumbled. “Is there no way you can come back with us?”

“We both have our duties,” Tobirama told him, sounding a little amused.

“Maybe I should stay here instead,” Madara said. “No Uchiha leaves the compound by themselves, and you’ll be alone here with both Izuna and Hikaku gone.”

Tobirama’s laughter was still a rare thing, and Madara had never felt it rumble against his chest like this. He decided that he liked it a great deal. 

“You told me that I’m part of the main house,” he said, “so I should be exempt from that rule.”

“I should remove that exemption,” Madara said, just to make Tobirama laugh again. He grinned when he succeeded. “I can do that, you know. I’m the clan head.”

Tugging lightly on his hair, Tobirama shook his head. “You are,” he said. “And I know that you won’t do such a foolish thing.”

“Still—”

“Will it placate you if I write you letters weekly?” Tobirama asked. “And send them to you via my summons, so you have their reports that I’m alright?”

“Your summons?” Madara blinked, because he had never seen those. Not even on the battlefield.

“They don’t like being called much,” Tobirama told him. “The weather disagrees with them, and they usually think that most situations are beneath them making the effort of coming out of their summoning realm, much less doing anything else.”

Madara blinked. “Are they _cats_, by any chance?” There was only one animal in the entire world that could be _this_ pernickety.

“Snow leopards,” Tobirama corrected, smiling against Madara’s temple. “Great big cats who would be incredibly insulted if you called them cats to their faces.”

“And they will be agreeable to becoming messengers?” If they were this picky and – Madara would never say this aloud in Tobirama’s hearing – _lazy_, then why would they make the week’s journey just to deliver letters?

“They have agreed to delivering my letters to Anija in the past,” Tobirama said, shrugging a little. Madara’s incredulity must have shown through his chakra, because Tobirama laughed again. “Their standards are a little odd and difficult to understand, I agree.”

Well, _now_ he knew why they were Tobirama’s summons. “Sounds like you,” he said, and rubbed his nose over the curve of one shoulder to take any possible sting out of the words. “They suit you.” He paused. “I hope that they’re more agreeable than Mito’s foxes.”

Silence. Madara pulled back _just_ in time to see Tobirama’s face scrunch up in that particularly cat-like and frankly adorable way. “There is no summon in the world,” he said, “more disagreeable than Aneue’s foxes. They listen to her and no one else, they wriggle through barricades just to be contradictory, and they make _messes_ everywhere they go.” He huffed. “My leopards are neat, at least.”

Madara couldn’t help it: he _laughed_. “Yes,” he said, cupping Tobirama’s face and pecking him light on the lips. “That’s a very important requirement for a summon.”

Tobirama’s face scrunched up even further, and Madara just _had_ to kiss him again. Then again.

He had two months of kisses to store up on, after all.

“Are you _sure_ that it’s safe?” Hashirama whined. “I don’t want you to end up with half your body here and half of it somewhere else, Tobirama! That’d be dangerous! You’d _die_ if you’re split into half!”

“Anija—” Tobirama huffed, shoving a hand into his older brother’s face in a futile attempt to dislodge Hashirama’s death grip on his waist. “I’ve tested it out before and I’ve _never _ended up split into half—”

“But you might!” Hashirama wailed. “It’s a big, big risk to take—”

“Seals don’t work like that, Anija!” Tobirama struggled even harder, voice taking on a hint of not only exasperation but frustration now. “If you’ve ever listened when Aneue and me talk to you about sealing theory—”

“And you said that Nii-san and I are annoying,” Izuna was whispering, sotto voce, to Touka. “Hashirama is more annoying than both of us put together.”

Touka clearly thought that comment was below her notice, because she only rolled her eyes.

Tuning out of her husband’s argument with his brother, Mito returned to inspecting the kunai in her hand. The seal drawn on it – every line and angle with perfect precision, because Tobirama’s handwriting might be atrocious but his sealwork had always been impeccable – was quite a marvel to behold. 

Part of a seal resembled an anchor, though it was nothing like others she had ever seen. If her theory was correct – and it usually was – Tobirama was using the dimension the Hiraishin travelled through as the anchor itself, and that anchor was linked up to a series of connectors that, Mito presumed, served to connect to the other markings he had made. In essence, Tobirama had made a spider-web connecting several locations, with the nexus being the dimension of travel…

And that was only the _space_ part of the seal. The time portion… Mito had seen a few seals that dealt with time – mostly failed ones that attempted time travel made by Uzumaki so caught up in their grief that they tossed away the most important laws of sealing – but none that _compressed_ it like this. Tobirama had clearly taken into account that travel would take time, even travel that shifted from one dimension to the next. 

So, this portion of the seal compressed time into a pocket and wrapped it around the dimension he was using to travel through – she really needed to come up with a name for that in her own head – so that whenever he went inside it, he moved into that time pocket, and when he exited, no time passed at all.

Instantaneous travel. Tobirama had created a whole new form of sealing – one based on laws that seals had explicitly forbidden people to touch, meaning that he had little to no precedent to work from – and he had done so in a _year_.

Mito had heard her brother-in-law called a ‘prodigy’ many times, and she knew it was true: what other nine-year-old could refine his chakra control so well that he could use a child’s coils – and all of their restrictive limits – to turn away typhoons, after all? But this was a stronger reminder than she had had for a very long time.

“Tobirama!” Hashirama cried, breaking her out of her thoughts. Mito blinked, looking up.

Her husband was sprawled on the ground, hands still wrapped around… absolutely nothing. As Hashirama scrambled to sit up, Madara threw his head back and _cackled_.

“Looks like he found another use for this Hiraishin of his,” he said, one eyebrow arched at Hashirama. “Escaping you.”

As if to punctuate his statement, there was a sudden flash of light, and Tobirama _appeared_ right next to her. It was only long years of training in propriety that stopped Mito from stabbing him in the face with his own kunai.

“Tobirama!” Hashirama shouted. “You’re alright!” Then he landed face-first into the tatami again, because the brother he was lunging at was gone again.

Experimentally, Mito tossed the kunai at Madara. The Uchiha caught it by instinct, the other eyebrow following the first, and Mito gave him a small smile just as Tobirama flashed back into place. 

Madara yelled, stumbling back, but curiously enough, his hand went around Tobirama’s waist, bringing him along to the floor, instead of pushing him away. The two of them went down into a heap of limbs, the fur collar of Tobirama’s montsuki haori – something of a trademark of his by now with how frequently he wore it – muffling Madara’s yelp.

Tobirama let out a soft “oof,” but didn’t scramble away like he would have from anyone else. Instead, he planted his fists onto the tatami, frowning as he loomed over Madara.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

Whatever Madara was about to reply was lost in a yelp when Hashirama _finally_ succeeded, flopping right on top of his brother. Both of their weights went crashing down straight onto Madara’s ribs, and Madara’s arms slapped against the floor as he tried to get Hashirama off and, oddly enough, not doing anything about how Tobirama’s forehead was right in between his collarbones.

The kunai went flying in Touka’s direction, and she didn’t even turn to look as she kicked it towards an empty spot in the room.

Another flash, and Tobirama was right beside it. “No, Anija,” he said, picking up the kunai and brandishing it like the weapon it was. “Do _not_ try to hug me again.”

“Get _off_ me, you fucking— heavy—” Madara snarled, fist smacking insistently against the side of Hashirama’s head. “You fucking _tree_!”

Lifting himself off Madara, Hashirama flopped onto his back on the tatami. “You’re _both_ so mean to me,” he pouted at the ceiling.

Ignoring his brother, Tobirama looked at the rest of them. “Are you all ready to go?” he practically demanded.

“We’ve been ready since we came into this room,” Izuna drawled, hefting the straps holding the storage scroll on his back in emphasis. “We’re just waiting for the esteemed Senju clan head to collect himself.”

“Honestly, at this point, we don’t claim him,” Touka said, finally peeling herself away from the wall where she had situated herself. “Are _you_ ready, Mito?”

“Yes,” she nodded immediately. She had plenty of opportunities to speak to her parents and siblings in the past two days, and, well, what was it that her mother had said? _You’ve spent too long with the Senju, Mito-chan_.

She was their daughter and sister, and she knew she would always be. She knew, too, that they still loved her. But it was a distant sort of love nowadays, nothing like the unfettered affection that they gave each other.

Long years of separation would ice over even the deepest of oceans, and the chill sank even deeper because she hadn’t been able to hide just how much she _didn’t_ regret leaving. Life among the Senju might be more difficult than she had once expected, but she had earned respect and a place among them. She had earned her _name_, and that was far too great an accomplishment for her to ever give up.

Turning, she met Tobirama’s eyes, and lifted some of the control she had over her chakra. Just enough for him to feel her determination and certainty.

“Alright,” Tobirama nodded. The air in the room shivered for a moment as he raised his chakra, and then his gaze flicked towards the floor. “Anija, are you going to stay there?”

“If I stay here, you can’t move me,” Hashirama said, grinning at his brother. “Then you won’t—”

There was a loud yelp, followed by a muffled scream that was definitely from Izuna, and the entire room _vanished_ around them. A brief moment of dizziness, which made her feel like a tiny, untrained child clinging onto a shinobi’s back as they moved through shunshin after shunshin, and the world came back into focus. A familiar-looking forest.

And Mito _had_ wondered just how Tobirama would transport all five of them along with himself. It wasn’t just that he didn’t like being touched: he simply didn’t have enough _limbs_ for all of them.

So, she thought as she staggered towards a nearby tree to catch her breath, the seal allowed Tobirama to transport people just by touching his chakra to theirs. That was… important knowledge.

“Okay, I think we all have our limbs,” Hashirama said, still flat on his back. There was going to be mud in his hair, Mito noted dazedly. “I officially declare the Hiraishin to not be kinjutsu.”

“Thank you, Anija,” Tobirama said, dry. “Are all of you alright?”

“Just peachy,” Izuna choked out. His forehead was pressed against a tree. “How many times do we have to do that again?”

“Four more, for you and Touka-nee,” Touka answered. “And six more for Anija, Aneue, and Madara.” He paused. “One jump for every day of travel. I’ve placed a marker for every half a day’s journey, so if that’ll be easier, I can do that instead.”

“And go through that eight more times?” Izuna said, splaying his hands on the trunk and straightening himself again. “Four is more than enough, thanks.”

“Is it going to strain your chakra to go through it so many times?” Madara’s voice rang out through the trees. For some reason, he seemed to be completely unaffected by the jump they had just taken. “I’ll give you some once you drop us near the village.”

“The Hiraishin doesn’t take a lot of chakra to use, not even when transporting others,” Tobirama said.

“I’m giving you some anyway,” Madara said. He rolled his shoulders back. “Alright, I’m ready for the next round.”

When Izuna groaned, rubbing his hands over his face, Hashirama laughed. “It’s easier if you’re lying down,” he chirped from the ground. “Steadier that way.”

Izuna peered at him, eyes narrowed, before he threw up his hands. “You know what?” He sat down, and then fell backwards until he was lying on the dirt as well. “I’ll take your word for it.” 

When Tobirama looked at her, Mito nodded. “Touka-nee?” he then prompted.

“Next time,” Touka said, cracking one eye open. She had closed them to take long, steady breaths. “I’m going to _walk_.”

“It’s really not _that_ bad,” Tobirama grumbled. Then, before anyone could say anything, the world vanished again. 

Mito’s feet had barely touched the ground, and her eyes had only taken note of the changes in foliage around her, when there was yet _another_ flash of white. Then another. She slammed her eyes shut, but that didn’t stop her from feeling like her feet had been _yanked _from beneath her as Tobirama jumped for the fourth time. Her arms went across her chest so she wouldn’t grab onto anything – she wasn’t sure if Tobirama would end up transporting a _tree_ if she was touching it – and she gritted her teeth hard as he pulled them forward again.

“There,” Tobirama’s voice rang out, irritatingly steady. “This is the last spot where I’m _sure_ it was Hikaku was with us, Touka-nee, Izuna.” 

“I,” Touka said, sounding more unsteady than Mito had ever heard her, “am going to throw up.” Running footsteps followed her next words.

Mito listed sideways without opening her eyes. Luckily, there _was _a tree close by, though at this point she wouldn’t even care if she ended up on the ground. It was undignified, but she was past dignity at this point.

“Is it really that bad?” Tobirama asked, sounding mystified.

“Yeah,” Madara said.

“You’re still standing,” Tobirama pointed out.

“I’ve had some experience with keeping my feet during spates of dizziness,” Madara said, and there was an oddly wry note in his voice. Then there was flare of chakra from his direction, enough to make Mito quickly shut down her own sensing. “Looks like you’re right about the Hiraishin not taking up too much of your chakra.”

“Didn’t you say that you trust me?” Tobirama asked, an odd weight behind those words that Mito didn’t quite have the strength to parse at the moment. She shelved it to think about for another time.

“Not when it comes to your own health,” Madara replied. “You have odd standards for that.”

That made Tobirama laugh as if there was an inside joke between him and Madara. Just a short chuckle, but more than most would get from him. Taking another deep breath, Mito peeled open her eyes.

Madara’s proximity to Tobirama was close enough that her brother-in-law would usually take three steps away to establish his personal space, but he was letting Madara get close. It wasn’t a surprise, not with the display they had put on during dinner two days ago, but Mito still felt her breath hitch a little when Madara slipped a hand over the nape of Tobirama’s neck and started playing with his hair.

Tobirama didn’t flinch. They were all _here_, watching this – Hashirama’s eyes were open, she noted, though Izuna’s was still closed – and Tobirama didn’t stop Madara from touching him like he used to. He hadn’t shied away from Madara’s touch two days ago, either.

It was a development. A good one, she told herself. But despite all that Madara had done to help, she couldn’t help but hold herself back from fully trusting him.

Perhaps because she knew what Hashirama had told him. Her husband had given him information that could be used to hurt, and Mito knew better than to blindly trust that Madara wouldn’t. She had lived too long hoarding secrets and controlling what people around her knew to do so.

“Izuna,” Madara said, voice cutting through her thoughts. “Are you dead?”

“Nah,” Izuna said, eyes still closed. “I’m just lying here until Touka comes back. The ground is nice and comfortable.”

“Told you that lying down makes it easier,” Hashirama said, sounding smug.

“Sure,” Izuna shot back immediately. “It makes me want to die a _little_ less.” He jolted, because Madara had kicked him on the shoulder. “Oy, Nii-san! What the fuck?”

“Don’t talk like that,” Madara demanded. “And get up. I want to say goodbye properly.”

“I’m not going to _disappear_, Nii-san,” Izuna sighed, but he did start to sit up. “I’ll be fine, and you’ll probably be stalking me with your chakra sense again anyway.”

“My range reaches only so far, and you’re going to hunt down a thing that has already messed with your head,” Madara said tartly even as he reached out to hook two fingers onto Izuna’s collar, reeling him in. “I need you to promise me to be careful, and to _keep_ your promise this time.”

Trying to struggle out of his older brother’s grip, Izuna pinwheeled his arms. “I _always_ keep my promises,” he grumbled.

“Yeah, letting the thing get to you when I told you to be careful around it is totally keeping a promise,” Madara said, dry. “Stop complaining.”

“You’d think I’m actually possessed if I did that,” Izuna muttered, but he let his brother reel him in anyway. Still by Madara’s side, Tobirama tried to move out of the way, but both Uchihas grabbed him by the shoulders, keeping him where he was.

With his forehead against Izuna’s and his hand on the nape of Tobirama’s neck, Madara hissed out a breath. “Listen,” he said. “No Uchiha should leave alone, but you’re both going to be unaccompanied by anyone else from the clan. Izuna, I need you to send me word periodically, okay? No excuses about not finding paper or enough time. I want at least one letter from your crows every week that you’re gone. Even if there are no updates on the situation, I want you to write to me.”

“Gods above, you’re _such_ a nag,” Izuna said, his eyeroll verbal. 

“Izuna…” Madara said warningly.

“Fine!” Izuna tried to pull his hair out of Madara’s grasp. “I’ll do it, I’ll do it!”

“Promise me,” Madara said. His eyes flashed red.

Izuna’s eyes shifted into the Sharingan as well, meeting Madara’s head-on as he nodded. “I promise to write to you every week,” he said. “I promise be aware at all times when I’m gone, so that I know if the black creature tries to mess with my head.” 

“Good,” Madara nodded, and tried to move away. But Izuna had both hands on his collar, dragging him back.

“You have to promise me to be careful, too, Nii-san,” Izuna said, serious in a way Mito had rarely heard him. “It messed with your head, too, and it wants your eyes.” He took a breath. “I think it was just using me to get to you—”

“That’s paranoid,” Madara protested.

“No, I agree,” Tobirama interrupted, his gaze darting from one brother to the other. “Madara, you _must_ keep aware. If you feel it again, you have to write to both of us. I’ll send Fuyume and my summon back with my first letter.”

Letting out a long breath, Madara nodded. “Okay. I’ll be careful.”

“You better,” Izuna said, finally pulling back. His eyes whirled back into true black, and he rolled his shoulders just once before he peered over Madara’s shoulder. “Touka! Are you done throwing up?”

“Fuck you, Uchiha!” Touka’s voice yelled back. “I’m staying here until you two are done with your creepy and sappy Sharingan bullshit!” 

“Don’t fucking call my clan’s traditions bullshit!” Izuna hollered. “I have weeks to kick your ass!”

“You wish!” Touka retorted. 

Izuna opened his mouth, but before he could shout another word, Madara’s hand slapped on one side of his face, shoving his head to the side. “If you two are going to flirt,” he drawled, deliberately loud, “do it without shouting in my ear. And maybe while you are walking.”

“Like fucking hell am I flirting with him!” Touka screeched, clearly offended.

“Ex_cuse_ me,” Izuna drew himself up. If he was a cat, his hackles would’ve been raised. “I’ll have you know that there are plenty of people who would die for a chance to flirt with me.” He dodged another one of Madara’s slaps, and started jogging in the direction of Touka’s voice. 

“See you, Nii-san!” he shouted over his shoulder. “And you better still be alive when I come back, Tobirama!”

“Wait,” Hashirama sat up suddenly, eyes wide. “Don’t Mito and I get goodbyes, Izuna?” 

“Bye Mito!” Izuna yelled obligingly. “And bye, tree-man!”

“Why does Mito get her name and I don’t?” Hashirama wailed to the general vicinity. “And I still don’t understand why ‘tree’ is an insult!”

Turning his eyes up to the sky, Tobirama sighed deeply. Mito tried to muffle her giggles, waiting.

“Touka!” Hashirama scrambled to his feet. “Come back! We haven’t said our goodbyes yet!”

“Fuck off, Hashirama!” Touka’s voice reached them, already fading away into the distance. “That’s all you get!”

Bottom lip sticking out, Hashirama flopped back to sit on the ground. “No fair,” he mumbled. “I wanted a touching goodbye scene like the one you had with Izuna, Madara.”

Looking at Hashirama for a long moment, Madara cocked his head. “Brace yourself, won’t you, Mito?” he asked. Mito barely had time to straighten and lock her knees when he continued, “Let’s go.”

The forest vanished in a flash of light. Mito gritted her teeth. Just one more time, she told herself. Just one more— _jerk_, the sensation of her body twisting through time and space, and there was ground under her feet again.

“We’re half an hour from the village now,” Tobirama said, and Mito had a brief need to strangle him for sounding so unaffected. “I have a marker in the village itself, in the administrative building, but I think it’s a better idea if I leave you here instead.”

“Appearing in the village without being seen entering it would send everyone into a panic,” Mito said. “To say the least.”

No one responded. Slowly, Mito opened her eyes.

The first thing she saw was Hashirama, head cocked to the side and brows creased; the look he had whenever he was listening to something far beyond a human’s hearing. She slid her gaze across the small clearing, and watched as Madara’s lips slowly drew back, baring his teeth, even as Tobirama’s hands clenched as his sides.

When she infused chakra to turn on her sensing, she already knew what she would find.

“The Hagoromo,” she said, barely keeping from snarling. “We have been gone for less than a week, and the Hagoromo are already _here_.” Trying to lay siege on the village, and she could feel more of them heading towards both of the original compounds of the Senju and the Uchiha. 

“Madara,” Hashirama said, his voice starting to gain an edge of danger.

“Whatever alliance the Uchiha had with them had been broken after Dad’s death,” Madara said through gritted teeth. “They had… disagreements with my ways.”

“Meaning?” Mito prodded.

“They think that having principles in war is foolish,” Madara said, “and wanted the Uchiha to go back to child-hunting.” His lips twisted back to bare his teeth. “I told them to scram before I make all of them burn.”

“I see,” Mito murmured, even if she didn’t at all. Then again, this part of the history between the Senju and the Uchiha was something that Hashirama had never spoken to her about, and which she had never asked in fear of ripping open terribly-festered wounds.

“The question is,” Tobirama murmured, “how did they know that the clan heads are away?”

“Thorns and red shadows.” Hashirama’s head tilted all the way to the side even as he rose to his feet. “Aphids lapping at the sap, caterpillars gnawing at the leaves.” He let out a shuddering breath. 

“An information leak,” Mito translated for her husband. “And not only to the Hagoromo.” She closed her eyes and took a long, bracing breath. “We told no one about the reason why we left, but the village is in a lockdown and no offence is being mounted to strike back.” The only possible reason for that, Mito knew, was if the Senju and the Uchiha were too busy fighting amongst themselves.

The leak reached even further as well: there were some chakra signatures within the village’s confines that Mito knew shouldn’t be there.

“I should,” Tobirama started, but he stopped when Madara darted out an arm to close around his elbow.

“Go back to Uzushio,” Madara said. “The peace agreement cannot waver just because of some rumours of a conflict between you and Izuna.” He looked as terrifying as the Senju’s stories of him now, eyes red with black pinwheels whirling, teeth bared, and hair wild around his face. “I refuse to parade you in front of our clan and the Senju just to get them to understand that peace is beyond a ceasefire.”

“But,” Tobirama started.

“Madara’s right,” Hashirama said. His eyes were still distant and fixed in the direction of the village. “Go back to Uzushio, Tobirama.”

“This is not merely peace that we’re working towards, little brother,” Mito added, shifting her gaze to Tobirama. “We’re working towards creating a village, something new that has never happened before.” How had the daimyo put it? A complete break from tradition.

Stretching out her arms, she took the fingers of one hand with the other, and started bending them until the knuckles cracked. “We need to build it on steadier foundations, one that cannot be jarred by a single conflict.”

“What are you going to do, then?” Tobirama crossed his arms, looking almost petulant.

“Mito.” The heavy, dark chakra of the Mangekyou washed over her. “I presume that you have an idea.”

“Yes,” Mito nodded. “We must return in a show of solidarity and force.” She turned and met the whirling black pinwheels squarely. “Your Susano’o. I’ve heard that it’s big enough to ride on.”

She allowed her lips to curve upwards into a small, vicious smile. “Will it fit three?”

Throwing his head back, Madara barked a harsh laugh. “There is plenty of space,” he said. Then his gaze slid to the side. “Are you still not convinced, Tobirama?” 

To her surprise, Tobirama snorted. “I suppose it’d be overkill if I came with all three of you,” he said. “If that’s the case, then I will—” He stopped, chin dipping down as he stared at Madara’s hand on his arm.

“Told you that I’d give you some chakra before you leave,” Madara said. His smile softened, the cruel edges smoothing out into something far gentler as Tobirama’s eyes fluttered shut. “There. Don’t forget your promise to write.”

“You _nag_,” Tobirama said. He immediately followed that with, “You have to write to me, too,” and fixed his eyes on Madara’s Mangekyou until the latter nodded. 

“Tobirama,” Hashirama said, his eyes clearing slightly as he turned to his brother. “I _will_ see you soon.”

“Of course, Anija,” Tobirama said. “When my time in Uzushio is done, or even before.” Then, with another glance at her and a muttered, “Aneue,” he was gone in a flash of light.

“No whining about lacking a touching farewell?” Madara asked Hashirama, an eyebrow arched even as he came to stand in between them.

“I’ll cry about it later when the village isn’t in danger,” Hashirama waved a hand. “What do you need me and Mito to do?”

“Stay on your feet,” Madara said. That was the only warning Mito had before chakra burst from him like a river breaking through a dam, heavy enough to rustle the leaves. She steeled herself.

She had heard of Madara’s Susano’o, of course – from Hashirama, and from the other Senju shinobi who whispered about it like it was something out from the worst nightmares their minds could conjure up – but none of them could match up to actually witnessing it come into existence.

Madara’s chakra coalesced first into bones, then into a full body, taller and larger than any of the trees around them. Chakra whirled and solidified beneath her feet before rising further and further upwards, bringing her body with it as it crested over the canopies until she could see the village in the distance. Not even her long years of training could prevent the way her breath threatened to stop in her throat as chakra brushed over her skin, dark and corrosive like acid, as armour clothed the monstrous body.

“Hey, Madara,” Hashirama said from Susano’o’s other shoulder – Madara had somehow managed to sit them apart even though they were standing together – sounding oddly cheerful. “Remember how I told you that I wasn’t going all-out on you in battle?”

“You didn’t tell me,” Madara said from above them where he was – Mito checked – seated cross-legged on top of the Susano’o’s head. “I _guessed_.”

“In any case, here’s something I’ve never used on you,” Hashirama said. His hands clapped together. “_Senjutsu_!”

Red markings appeared on her husband’s face, lining his eyes first before two streaks ran down his cheeks. A dot of the same blood-like shade appeared in the middle of his forehead, followed by a circle that surrounded it. 

“Wait, what the—” Madara started. “Are _Tobirama’s markings_— Since when do you have senjutsu?!”

“I kind of have it to not turn into the tree you all keep calling me!” Hashirama answered, laughing lightly. “Hold on!” He went through a series of hand signs, and two _massive_ swords grew out of the ground, the tip of the blades going past Mito’s nose. “Here, some weapons for Susano’o-kun to use!”

“He’s not a fucking _-kun_, you stupid tree!” Madara yelled, offended. Still, Susano’o bent down to pick up the swords, tossing and catching them as if testing their weight. “And what do you mean, you turn into a tree?”

“Mokuton turns people into trees!” Hashirama gave away another one of the Senju’s long-held secrets easily. “Or so the clan records say anyway. It’s kind of blurry at points because there are so many generations in between each person born with Mokuton.” 

“And you didn’t think to tell me that before this?!” 

“It never came up,” Hashirama said, and Mito didn’t need to turn to know that he was shrugging. “In any case, I’m going to give your Susano’o-kun a few more decorations just so that people know that Mito and I are here!”

“I fucking _told_ you he’s not a fucking _-kun_, you _fucking tree_!” Madara screeched. 

“But he’s such a cute tengu!” Hashirama yelled back, definitely being a shit on purpose. Even as he spoke, vines crawled all over Susano’o’s body, twining around its legs and arms before reaching the neck. They avoided the joints – which, Mito supposed, was a wise move because the monstrous thing looked solid enough to be immobilised by such things – but everywhere the vines grew, purple flowers started to unfurl. 

“Mind telling me what the hell are those things?” Madara asked, his voice finally gaining some semblance of calm.

“Torikabuto!” Hashirama shouted cheerfully. “But senjutsu lets me make adjustments to the plants themselves, so these ones poisons not just when you eat them, but when you smell the flowers!” Madara made a noise, nearly muffled, and Hashirama laughed. “Don’t worry, it won’t poison you. Senjutsu lets me control exactly who the poison affects.”

“You know what,” Madara said flatly. “I am really glad I don’t ever have to fight against you anymore.”

“Me too,” Hashirama said, shifting into seriousness the way he was wont to whenever the cheerfulness was exaggerated instead of wholly real. “I’m really glad about that too, Madara.”

“Are you two finished?” Mito asked. “We’re very close to the village now.”

“Guess so,” Madara said. Mito had an odd feeling that he was _very_ glad for her interruption. Which made sense, she supposed, because very few people were used to Hashirama the same way she was. “What are you planning?”

“I’ve laid down a few seals around the village’s edges,” Mito told him. “I will remain here, on your Susano’o,” it took _far_ too much effort to not tack on ‘-kun’ just to see Madara’s reaction, “until we reach the village. At that point, will you and Hashirama rally your clans and fight the Hagoromo?” She paused. 

“There are other matters for me to deal with.” 

“So,” Madara said, “you felt them too, huh?”

“They are very distinctive,” Mito said.

“Hn.”

“Is anyone going to tell me what’s happening,” Hashirama asked, false cheer bright in his voice, “or am I going to have to talk to the trees and risk becoming one of them just to know?”

“Akimichi Chouta is here, husband,” Mito said. “And so are Nara Shikami, and Yamanaka Inohiro.”

“Hah,” Hashirama said. “I suppose neither of you would let me just give them whatever they want?”

“Hashirama,” Madara said, deep voice dipping even lower. “Do you remember what you needed my help with?” He didn’t wait for Hashirama’s response. “Do you want to tell those three everything you told me, and ask for their help, too?”

“No.” Hashirama’s response was immediate. “I told you because you’re special, Madara. You haven’t said anything to Izuna, have you?”

“Of course not,” Madara snorted. “And stop describing me that way, especially in front of your wife.”

“I know exactly what is between the two of you,” Mito said, grinning despite the situation. “And I approve.”

“You know,” Madara said, tone conversational, “I _can _drop you both. Or better yet, fling you back towards Uzushio.” Then, when Hashirama only snickered in reply and Mito was too busy stifling her own giggles, he heaved a beleaguered sigh. “There’s no way we _can _allow them to get what they want.”

“Let’s make this clear,” Mito said, regaining control over her own voice to fully focuson the danger ahead. “We suspect that the Akimichi and their vassal clans are here because they want a higher position in the village, right?”

“Of course,” Madara said. “Why else would they come only when the clan heads and heirs are _all_ gone?”

“This is my cue to suggest that it might be a coincidence,” Hashirama piped up. When incredulous silence met him, he laughed. “Yeah, I don’t believe that either.”

“We still need them as friends,” Mito mused. “It will be a good challenge.”

“I don’t understand why you would find politicking fun,” Madara said, droll. “But it’s definitely useful.” He paused. “There’s something I want to ask.”

Letting out a hum so that Madara knew that he was heard, Mito cocked her head.

“Is the offer to teach me your seals still open?”

“Mito,” Hashirama gasped. “You _offered_—”

“Only those of my own invention,” Mito said, interrupting ruthlessly. “Please give us a moment, husband.”

Hashirama made a grumbling noise, but did not say another word.

“If I ask for foundational sealing knowledge, will you teach me?” Madara asked.

Narrowing her eyes, Mito tilted her head up. But the Susano’o’s head blocked her view, and she turned her gaze forward again. “Did you not learn that from Tobirama?”

“He was busy, and I didn’t see the point,” Madara said. “Which is my mistake, because now I _do_.” Mito’s silence likely hinted to him that she was waiting, because he sighed and elaborated. “Tobirama’s alone in Uzushio. Even if the black thing doesn’t go after him, he’s still in constant danger from having to handle typhoons. I don’t _want _to have to travel for three days, much less a week, to get to him, and depend on him to come back quickly.”

“You want to learn the Hiraishin,” Mito said.

“Partly,” Madara admitted. “Another part is that I want to know what the hell he’s doing when he’s working on his seals.” A soft huffing laugh, nearly drowned out by the Susano’o’s heavy steps. “I’d like him to have at least one person to talk to about what he’s working on. He clearly hates explaining things, so…” 

“It’ll be difficult,” Mito cautioned. “You might take months to get enough of a handle on it to start replicating seals, much less understanding the theoretical depths that Tobirama tends to go into.”

“That’s fine.” Madara’s response was immediate. “I’m not thinking of this as a quick-fix solution anyway.”

Her father would not be pleased with her, Mito agreed. But her father had given her away to the Senju in exchange for having Tobirama, and so Mito had become far more of Tobirama’s sister than her father’s daughter. And for Madara to not only be thinking of a future with Tobirama by his side, but to make so much effort for his sake…

“Yes,” Mito said.

“Hn?”

“I’ll teach you sealing from the very basics,” Mito said, “as well as the seals of my own invention. I can’t teach you Hiraishin, however.”

“That’s fine,” Madara said. “Hah, I thought I’d have to try harder to convince you, given how tightly Uzushio keeps its seals a secret.” 

She did the best she could by Tobirama, and she knew Hashirama tried very hard as well. But no one, absolutely _no one_, had reached him the way Madara had. When she had first seen it, she had been cautious and afraid for the boy who had become more her brother than any of her blood siblings, but now…

He might be safer in Madara’s hands, she thought, than he was in anyone else’s.

Madara let out a breath. “Thank you.”

Mito let her silence speak for itself.

“Am I allowed to talk now?” Hashirama said, with a hint of sulkiness in his tone. “Because we’re almost here.”

They were close enough to the village now that Madara’s Susano’o, his mokuton-made weapons, and the vines twining around it could be seen by those within. Which meant that… Mito focused.

“What are you doing?” Madara asked, suspicion colouring his tone. Mito gave a moment to herself to be glad that he didn’t entirely trust her, either. She would think _much_ less of him if he did, especially after what she had done. They might not have mentioned it over the past months, but she doubted that Madara had ever let it slip his mind when looking at her.

She might trust him with Tobirama, but she did not expect that trust to be wholly returned.

“Activating my seals,” she answered. “We shouldn’t be attacked by them, right?”

With that as a warning, she finished wrapping her chakra around the Susano’o. Now that was finished, she threw a thread of it outwards, finding one of the activation seals, and… _There_. 

“Mito has these all over the Senju compound,” Hashirama was saying. “They are _very_ useful.”

Beams of light reached up from all four corners of the village, stretching up high above even the Susano’o, and started to close the village within it. The moment the barrier finished, winds rose, howling loud enough to drown out the yells of the Hagoromo outside and the Senju and the Uchiha within. She had keyed in the general chakra nature of both of their clans into the barrier, so—

Air coalesced into blades, and the raging winds threw them outwards. Shrieks rang out, echoing through the forests. With her chakra senses so extended, Mito could feel the panic of the animals as they ran for shelter, and she focused on them even as she drew her chakra back within herself. She had felt enough shinobi die in her lifetime to have no desire to feel even more.

“This is a fucking _cyclone_!” Madara was screeching from above. “Your fucking barrier makes a cyclone!”

“You’re underestimating Mito!” Hashirama screamed back, voice full of joy. “It’s never just _one_!”

One from each direction, in fact. But the one at the north point was entirely useless, because the Hagoromo were mostly in the south. A twitch of will, and the seals shifted slightly

To Madara’s credit, the Susano’o’s pace didn’t falter even as two cyclones went straight past it. In fact, it ran even faster, tengu-shaped head dipped down as it _charged_ towards the barrier, and—

Inside the village, it was quiet. 

Placing one hand on the neck of the chakra construct, Mito patted it. “Thank you for the ride, Uchiha-sama!” she called out, making sure that her voice was loud and resonant enough to spread.

Then, before anyone could reply, Mito ran down Susano’s body, deftly avoiding the blooms on its chest. The moment her feet touched the ground, she headed for Akimichi Chouta, gathered as he was with some of the Senju elders in the middle of the village.

So, Mito thought, not only did she have to deal with the Akimichi and his vassal clans’ attempts at grasping power, she would also have to handle the Senju elders’ insistence on keeping supremacy within the village. Or, she corrected herself mentally, their persistence in trying to keep the Uchiha subordinate.

Difficult, but not impossible.

Pasting on a smile, Mito slowed down her steps, and came to a stop in front of Akimichi Chouta. True to form, he allowed nothing but surprise and pleasure to cross his expression upon seeing her.

“It is a surprise to see you here, Akimichi-sama,” she murmured as she bent her knees. Then she turned to the other two figures flanking him. “Nara-sama,” hair flopping in her clan’s characteristic spiky ponytail, Nara Shikami returned her greeting with a bow, “Yamanaka-sama.” Yamanaka Inohiro smiled, and swept his arm out as he bowed as well. 

“I apologise for the current ramshackle state of our village.” 

“Shouldn’t you be more worried that there’s an attack on it right now?” Nara Shikami drawled, cocking her head to the side.

“I’m sure that my husband and Uchiha-sama have this… little disturbance well in hand,” she said, and held out a hand. “Would the three of you like to join us,” she glanced at the Senju elders, smiling with teeth, “for some tea?”

“Oh,” Akimichi Chouta said, giving her a thin-lipped smile of his own, “certainly, Mito-hime-sama.”

“Please,” Mito lowered her knees slightly. “Just ‘Mito’ will do, Akimichi-sama.” She lifted her head and met his eyes directly. “We’re all friends here, are we not?”

“Of course,” Yamanaka Inohiro said, mouth twitching at one corner. “Friends, instead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kishimoto: The Uchiha Curse of Hatred™  
Me, who has way too much experience and knowledge about memory and trauma: Are you telling me that a centuries-old clan has, one, no knowledge of what they’re genetically predisposed towards, and two, and have no _basic coping mechanisms_ to deal with that shit? Are you fucking shitting me?
> 
> Look, when I tagged that I put my rage at Kishimito’s worldbuilding into a fic, I was not kidding.
> 
> Also, Hashirama’s OTPs are HashiMito and MadaTobi, but he also knows exactly how his and Madara’s relationship might look like from the POVs of outsiders. He also finds Madara’s unsubtle avoidance of and embarrassment over the idea that Hashirama is in love with him to be absolutely hilarious. Meanwhile, Mito encourages all of her husband’s shithead tendencies because she genuinely thinks that they’re funny. Look, she married him when they were both _thirteen_; her sense of humour has long ago deteriorated to be as bad as his.
> 
> For those of you have noticed: yes, there are now more than twenty chapters. I’ve said this before and I will say this again: this fic has gotten out of hand a long, long time ago, and I have given up hope of disciplining it in any way. Twenty-five chapters is a guesstimation; I'd rather over-deliver than under. And yes, I changed the rating; I meant to do it for Chapter 12, but I forgot. It's changed now lol.


	16. the path ahead dark and deep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings: **Sensory deprivation and a panic attack in the second scene.

Staring at the pile of letters lying on top of the chabudai in front of him, Madara took a deep breath. Then another. The urge to burn it all into ash didn’t go away. He clenched his hands over the edge of the wood, feeling it dig into his palms, and bit the inside of his cheek so he didn’t send the table skittering towards the nearest wall.

“Akimichi Chouta is a hell of a bastard,” he declared. “And Yamanaka Inohiro and Nara Shikami are equally bad for throwing their weight behind him.”

“Did you actually expect those two to go against the Akimichi?” Mito raised an eyebrow. “Especially for _our_ sakes?”

“I expected people of their reputations for intelligence,” Madara answered through gritted teeth, “to actually have some sense.”

Lying on his side on the tatami, Hashirama laughed. “I really don’t think that they’re that bad,” he said. “Any of them.”

Ignoring that absolutely useless contribution to the conversation, Madara narrowed his eyes at Mito. “Can’t you cut them off at the knees?” he demanded. “That’s your area of expertise, isn’t it?” 

Porcelain clicked loudly against wood as Mito lowered her cup back onto the chabudai. Her painted nails flicked over the papers, sending a few flying in Hashirama’s direction, making him yelp and roll onto his back to dodge them. Then, unearthing the teapot from beneath the pile, she refilled her cup.

“As flattered as I am with your high regard for my skills, Uchiha-sama,” Mito said, tone pointed, “I would like to remind you that even the Uzumaki’s reach and influence is limited.”

“Is it, really?”

“You can’t expect me to go against the combined might of the Akimichi, Nara, and Yamanaka all by myself,” she returned, sounding more than a little irritated now.

Given all that he had seen of her, Madara could and _did_ in fact expect her to do so. He grunted, and dug his knuckles into the corners of his eyes.

They didn’t hurt anymore, not since Tobirama had used his seals on him. His vision was clearer than it had been in years, almost to the point that it used to be before he had awakened the Sharingan, much less the Mangekyou.

His current headache had absolutely nothing to do with the state of his eyes.

“I still don’t see what’s so terrible about giving them what they’re asking for,” Hashirama said, eyes fixed on the ceiling. When Madara opened his mouth, impatient words already gathering under his tongue, Hashirama held up a hand. “I know that giving them power in the village will make it much more difficult for us to establish the kind of philosophy we want, because we’ll be giving them the authority to veto us. But…”

He rolled back to his stomach, gaze flickering between Madara and Mito in turn. “But they’re offering to bring in the other clans for us, which will save us a great deal of work.” He cocked his head to the side, a smile curving the side of his mouth. “Isn’t that a good trade?”

Before Madara could even speak, Mito leaned forward, brows creased. “Why,” she said, word sharply enunciated, “are you trying to dissimulate with us, husband?”

When Hashirama turned wide, seemingly guileless eyes on her, Madara snorted. “Please,” he drawled. “We know perfectly well that you’re not an idiot, so what exactly do you want, Hashirama?”

“Maybe,” Hashirama said, smile widening into a grin, “I just want to hear the two of you agree on something.”

“Uchiha-sama and I agree on plenty of things,” Mito said, sitting back and folding her hands on her lap.

“That’s bullshit,” Madara tossed at her before jabbing a finger in Hashirama’s direction. “Did you somehow not learn how to ask questions in your entire life?”

“Oh, I know how,” Hashirama admitted cheerfully. “It’s just a habit to do this instead, that’s all.”

“One that you’re supposed to be working to break out of,” Madara reminded, one brow arched. “Now _ask_ for what you want like a normal human being, for fuck’s sake.”

Throwing his head back, Hashirama laughed. Then he swung himself forward to sit up, legs crossed and wrists resting on his knees. “Okay,” he nodded easily. “Tell me why it’s such a bad idea. Please?”

That was far too easy. Madara wondered if Hashirama had yet _another_ ulterior motive – making Madara and Mito work together, even if it was on something small, if he was to venture a guess – before he dismissed the thought. If he had to claw through even more layers of Hashirama’s thought processes than those he was already half-drowning in, he would want to rip his own face off.

“Uchiha-sama?” Mito prompted.

Rolling his eyes, Madara swiped his teacup from where it was hidden beneath the letters from the Aburame, Hyuuga, Inuzuka, and Hatake. “Look, if they,” he waved a hand vaguely over the papers, “come in because of the Akimichi, then they would be more loyal to them than to the village.”

He took a sip of his tea, made a face because it was now cold, and finished it anyway. “In fact, the Aburame and Hyuuga’s justification for joining the village would be because of the Akimichi’s position as the highest-ranking of the four noble shinobi clans.” The Uchiha was at the very bottom of the list, Madara knew perfectly well; unlike the other three, they hadn’t even finished an entire generation as a noble clan.

Not that those things truly mattered, no matter how much the Hyuuga liked to stick their noses up at them.

“And that’s not a good thing?” Hashirama asked.

“There’s no way to guarantee the Akimichi’s loyalty to the Senju and the Uchiha, much less the village itself,” Mito said, picking up the thread as she refilled Madara’s teacup. “If the other clans join because of them… There is a high possibility that the village leadership would, by necessity, be handed over to Akimichi Chouta.” 

“Because the clans that are not ours came in because he asked, not because we did,” Madara added.

“Exactly,” Mito nodded, and set the teapot down with a soft _thud_. “And that is a dangerous path to take, because it raises the possibility of the village’s purpose not being fulfilled.”

“Meaning that,” Madara bit back a sigh at Mito’s circuitous way of speech, “Chouta might end up leading the village back to war, and if he has the power of authority of the village’s leader _and_ the other clans’ support, we won’t be able to do anything against him.”

Eyes sliding shut, Hashirama let out a long breath. “It sounds so much worse when it’s said out loud,” he complained.

“You literally asked us to do it,” Madara pointed out.

“So, I did,” Hashirama said. Then, in a deceptively casual tone, he asked, “Is it possible for us to _trust_ that he won’t lead us back to war? The Akimichi have never taken part in the war between the clans, after all.”

“Only because their position as the highest-ranking shinobi clan has always been assured,” Mito said before Madara could start yelling at Hashirama for being stupid. “If there is a chance of that being threatened, he might lead the village into war against the other continents just to establish his authority.”

“Besides,” Madara tapped his fingers on the chabudai, “just because his _clan_ has avoided war for centuries doesn’t mean that _he _will.” His eyes narrowed on Hashirama. “You know better than anyone just how much a clan head might be different from what his clan’s reputation and history imply.” He held up the restless hand. “_And_ you know that he has Nara Shikami as his right hand, and _she_ won clan leadership over her brothers because of her penchant for strategy and closeness with Chouta.”

“Do you think there’d be a chance that I can watch Nara Shikami spar verbally with you, Mito?” Hashirama turned to his wife. “Especially once they come into the village?”

“Certainly there will be opportunities for you to do so once they join,” Mito said, folding her hands into her sleeves. “But you know just as well as I do that their joining isn’t a certainty yet.”

“_Focus_, Hashirama,” Madara rapped his knuckles on wood again.

Slowly flopping on his back, Hashirama sighed. “I don’t want to think about what we have to do to make them give up on having power in the village, _and_ to convince the other clans to join because of us.”

Madara blinked. “You’ve lost me,” he said.

“It comes down to power,” Hashirama said, head tipped back to stare at the ceiling again. “You said it yourself, Madara: the Hyuuga and Aburame would join the village if the Akimichi asks, because the latter’s status is higher than theirs.” His lips twisted. “Chouta leads, and they will follow.”

“That much is obvious,” Madara nodded.

“There’s no way that we can exceed the Akimich on those terms, because it took the Akimichi generations to build it. Time that we, and the village, don’t have,” Hashirama continued.

_Oh_. Madara blinked. “You’re saying,” he started slowly, “that the other clans would likely join and throw their lots behind _us _if we show ourselves to be even more powerful than the Akimichi.” He stared at the tea leaves that had settled at the bottom of his cup. “And the only way to do that is a huge show of power.”

“A really big one,” Hashirama said, dragging a hand over his hair. “Bigger than what we already did to the Hagoromo.”

Despite himself, Madara couldn’t help but grimace. Not because what they had done – the Hagoromo deserved everything that had come to them when they tried attacking the barely-formed village while its leaders and strongest shinobi were away – but because of the implications of Hashirama’s words.

What _could_ be an even greater show of strength than the near-annihilation of an entire clan?

“There is another complication,” Mito said.

Weary and wary both, Madara slid his gaze over to her. “What is it?”

“Whatever show of strength we demonstrate must be in defence of the Land of Fire,” Mito swept out a hand. “Or, at the very least, it cannot be done against any of the shinobi clans within the country’s borders.”

“Because of the daimyo?”

“Only partly,” Mito nodded to him in acknowledgement. “But look at this from the perspective of, say, the Hatake, Uchiha-sama: for decades and even centuries they have lived their nomadic lives, and they are very much used to that way of living. If they join the village, it will require them to go through a massive change.”

“So,” Madara finished for her, “the incentive to move into the village must be great enough to counter that.”

“Precisely,” Mito nodded. “And the only incentive great enough is a defensive system, or a defender, so great that they would _never_ have to fear for their own safety.”

“I can try to convince them of peace,” Hashirama said, an odd lopsided smile curving up the sides of his eyes, “but I don’t think it’d work.” 

“And at the same time,” Madara said, ignoring Hashirama again, “a show of force in defence of the country or the other clans would also delegitimise the Akimichi’s claims to supremacy, which means that they would have no choice whatsoever other than to submit to the village’s leadership under us.”

Hashirama let out a barking laugh. “In other words,” he said, shaking his head, “we need a war.”

“We need a war against the other four Elemental Countries,” Mito corrected. “Or any of the other countries, whether on the continent or beyond. At this point, we can’t afford to be picky.” 

Madara felt the urge to point out just how _casually_ Mito could and did speak about the possibility of looming war, but bit the words back. There was no need: her ruthlessness was nearly common knowledge by now, especially between the three of them.

Instead, he let the long silence settle into the room.

Then Hashirama exhaled explosively, bringing his hands to rub over his face. “I wanted this village for peace,” he said, voice both muffled and terribly heavy. “But it seems that war comes, no matter what we do.”

“There is plenty we can do, husband,” Mito said, reaching over the chabudai to place a pale hand on his elbow. “But we cannot forget that we stand on a precipice, and that making a wrong move would…” She shook her head.

“And the wars would be worse than those that came before,” Madara pointed out grimly, never one to mince words. “It hasn’t even been a year since we received the daimyo’s permission, but reports are coming from the other Elemental Countries of villages like this one being planned.” Meaning that if there was war, especially a war like the one that Mito spoke about, it would be between countries instead of clans.

A scale greater than any that had come before. What clan could, after all, boast of a shinobi population even a tenth of that of an entire country?

“I know,” Hashirama said, still hiding his face behind his hands. “But I just… Why is everything so _difficult_?”

Despite himself, Madara laughed. “Weren’t you told about what we said to the daimyo, Hashirama?” he asked. “The world has remained in this state of war between clans for literal centuries, and we’re trying to change its course entirely. Did you expect it to come easily?”

“If stones take years and decades to be worn down to pebbles,” Mito murmured, “could we expect the minds of the world to be changed within a single generation?” Her eyes glided towards him. “Did you expect this when you first signed the peace agreement and agreed to build the village, Uchiha-sama?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t be sitting here,” Madara replied dryly. “But that reminds me.” Resting his hand on top of the chabudai, he tapped the wood a few times. “There’s a rather sickening irony here.”

Hashirama peeked at him over the tips of his fingers. “If it’s more bad news, I don’t want to hear it,” he said.

“It’s not,” Madara said. When Hashirama’s gaze grew dramatically suspicious, Madara laughed. “Look, the original agreement between the Uchiha and the Senju is to ensure an equilibrium of power between the two clans.” That was why Tobirama was his concubine, after all. “But now we’re talking about ensuring the subjugation of the other clans in order to force them to join us.”

“We’re not _forcing_ them,” Hashirama predictably protested. “We’re giving them an incentive!”

“One that they cannot refuse,” Madara retorted. “And one that would make them subordinate to us.”

Hashirama opened his mouth. But before he could speak, Mito leaned forward, dark eyes sharp upon Madara’s face as she said, “Are you suggesting, Uchiha-sama, that we _do_ give them equal power?”

“No,” Madara shook his head. “Too many captains, and the ship ends up on a mountain.” When Mito arched a brow at him, Madara huffed, crossing his arms. “Look, you said once that you wanted the village to become safe for everyone, right?”

Slowly, Mito nodded. “Yes.”

“My definition of safety,” Madara said, “is for every person in the village to be given a role that they must fulfil. One that will, in essence, help them keep their emotions in check.” Hashirama’s mouth was starting to twitch; Madara ignored him. “That is the Uchiha’s way.”

Mito’s eyes narrowed further.

“The Uchiha’s way,” Madara continued, “is also to ensure that every woman is nothing more than a wife and mother, for that role is necessary for the hearth to remain warm, and a house to become a home.”

To his surprise, Mito threw her head back and barked a sharp _laugh_. “I see your point, Uchiha-sama.”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t,” he drawled in reply.

“Though, do you still think that?” Mito asked, and despite the casualness of her tone, Madara could feel the weight behind the question.

“You are more fox than woman in my eyes,” he pointed out dryly, “and it is still necessary for there to be someone to ensure that a house is more than a building, but a home. But, no, I know that there are necessary changes to be made to the Uchiha’s way of things.”

“There is,” Hashirama said, voice falsely bright and cheerful, “so much to do.”

“Only if you want the village to be one that’s worth living in,” Madara replied, arch. When Hashirama started to frown, Madara sighed. “Look, there are greater and _better _things to aim for than giving your brother time to read, okay? Trust Mito and me on this and just do what we tell you.” 

“I wonder, though,” Hashirama said, dropping an elbow onto the chabudai and putting his head into a hand, “if we’re going to build a village that gives a better life to its people, then why would we still need a war? Isn’t that life enough an incentive to let people join?”

“You can’t expect them to recognise what improvements their lives will go through before they live them,” Mito pointed out, practically taking the words out of Madara’s mouth. “All they will see are the changes that moving into the village will bring, and given that the life will be entirely new and unknown, the only path they see will be one that is dark and terrifying.”

Hashirama opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the sound of rapping echoed throughout the room. Madara was starting to stand even before he realised it.

“Is it one of Tobirama’s letters?” Hashirama asked.

Halfway up the wall to open the ranma – Hashirama had locked the door with his mokuton to ensure that they had privacy, and it was too much effort to ask him to retract the vines – Madara urged Natsuru to perch on his forearm. He jumped back to the floor with his fingers on her head, letting her nuzzle into his palm, before he slid his hand down to find the scroll tucked against a leg.

“Izuna’s,” he answered, and turned to narrow his eyes on Hashirama. “Which you should know, because Tobirama’s letters come by his summons, not my falcons.”

“I still can’t believe that Tobirama agreed to send his summons to you for _every_ letter,” Hashirama grumbled. “He only ever sent them to me when my cousin’s magpies were unavailable, or if it’s an urgent letter.”

“Guess he likes me better,” Madara said, trying to keep his tone flippant even as warmth shot up from the base of his spine. 

“Not fair,” Hashirama pouted.

“Get used to it,” Madara shot back. “If you keep complaining, I won’t tell you what Izuna’s letter says.”

Hashirama hurriedly clicked his mouth back shut. Madara nodded, satisfied, as he returned to his seat, and ignored the soft titters coming from Mito’s direction. 

He unrolled the scroll. If there was something else he was thankful for regarding the improvement of his visions from Tobirama’s seals, it was that he could actually read Izuna’s handwriting. It was normally perfectly legible, but whenever he was travelling, he tended to write using whatever he could find as a surface, and most frequently it was his knee. Which meant that every word degenerated into nothing more than scrawls.

“Hah,” he said once he was done, blinking.

“What is it?” The words burst out of Hashirama, and he leaned forward, practically vibrating with impatience. “What did Izuna say? Have they found that thing yet?”

“No,” Madara answered, scanning through the lines again just to make sure that he wasn’t misreading any of Izuna’s terribly-written kanji. “But they’ll be coming back to the village soon, because the trail is leading them back here.”

“Didn’t Izuna say that they were at the border between the Land of Water and the Land of Lightning in his last letter?” Mito asked, confusion colouring her voice.

“He did,” Madara nodded distractedly. “But apparently the trail was false, because they found nothing at the end.” He skimmed over the four lines of creative swearing that Izuna had seen fit to include. “They found another one – Izuna didn’t say how exactly, only that they did – and this one leads towards the Mountains’ Graveyard just north of here.”

“The Mountain’s—” Mito started, and then stopped suddenly. “Are you sure? Are _they_ sure?”

Lowering the letter, Madara frowned at her. “I am very sure that’s what he said, and I have no idea whether they are sure about it,” he said. “Why?”

“Did Izuna tell you about the presence that was there when he was talking to Tobirama?” Mito pressed.

Madara didn’t need to ask her to clarify which instance of Izuna talking to Tobirama she meant; there was only one significant enough to be referenced without further elaboration, and, more importantly, only one where there was something there that could only be described as a _presence_.

“He doesn’t need to,” Madara said, putting the scroll down to meet her gaze squarely. “I felt it too, that massive chakra.” 

“Ah,” Mito’s eyes flicked down towards the chabudai for a moment. “Did you feel where it headed?”

“I was too focused on following Izuna to notice at the time,” Madara answered, a little wry. “But I can guess why you’re bringing it up now, Mito: it headed north, didn’t it? Towards the Mountains’ Graveyard.”

“Yes.”

“And now Izuna and Touka are heading straight in its direction,” Madara said. Putting down the letter, he pinched the bridge of his nose. It gave him something to do so he wouldn’t end up running out of this mokuton-made cottage to the village gates.

His actions must be more transparent than he had thought, because Hashirama said, in a voice clearly meant to be helpful: “Izuna would be pissed at you if you go after him, now.”

“If it means that he’ll be alive to be angry with me, I’m willing to risk his wrath,” Madara said, letting his hand fall back to his lap. “Don’t tell me that you wouldn’t do the same if it’s Tobirama who was in danger of being attacked by a giant chakra monster.”

“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of stopping you,” Hashirama said, still in that chirpy tone. “I’m only reminding you about what might happen if you try to go after him.” He paused. “I suppose I should tell you that Touka will definitely help him kill you. Fratricide can be their bonding activity.”

“I’m not going after him,” Madara grumbled. “So shut up already.”

“You’re not?” Hashirama blinked.

“Have you forgotten that the thing went for my eyes?” Madara shot back, irritated. “Because I haven’t, and I am _not_ going to give it another target to aim for.” 

“A wise decision, Uchiha-sama,” Mito said.

“Thanks,” Madara said, dry. “Glad to know that I’m not _entirely_ stupid in your eyes.”

“I have never said that,” Mito protested. “Or even thought it, for the matter.”

Snorting, Madara shook his head. “In any case,” he said, glancing from Izuna’s letter to those from other clans on the table. Then he turned his gaze towards the bookshelves that Hashirama had recently grown out of the cottage’s walls, and thought wryly that his childhood self certainly had never imagined so much _paper_ to be involved in building a village.

Then again, he and Hashirama had dreamt up of a village where every house was a mansion built within the trees and with far more training grounds than sense would say was necessary. They had talked about food aplenty for everyone without ever mentioning spots for tilled fields or grazing lands. Hashirama had been obsessed with playgrounds and restaurants, placing one every ten or so metres, and Madara had laughingly added in weapon and jewellery shops with glittery displays, and neither of them had ever thought about the trades routes necessary to make those possible, the plans for which were now buried somewhere within the multiple stacks in the shelves.

The dreams of childhood were very different from adulthood’s reality. Madara supposed that he should be glad that he had enough of a childhood to be able to recognise the changes.

(That talk with Hashirama had shifted the way he thought about things a great deal.)

“Uh… did you have a point, or did it get lost in your head?” Hashirama asked.

Turning to him, Madara blinked. Oh, right, he had been in the middle of talking. He rubbed a hand over his face.

“In any case,” he repeated, picking up the thread again, “we can’t do anything except focus on building the village at this moment.” 

There was plenty left to do, at any rate. The foundation stones had been laid in, the wells dug, and the pipes from the Naka laid out, but there were the buildings themselves that had to be constructed, training grounds to plan for, shops and other businesses to be approved, civilian clans to contact and contract with… Not to mention everything else that had to be dealt with in their original compounds to clean things up and start moving into the village.

It was nearly enough to give him a headache. He might be impatient with Hashirama whenever his friend whined about how difficult everything was, but he _did_ see his point. But Mito was right, too, in her usual roundabout way:

If they didn’t set the foundations of the village right, then it ran the risk of being utterly destroyed by war in but a few decades. Or, worse still, the state of the world would be plunged into even worse chaos than before, and he and Hashirama and Mito and everyone else would be far too dead from fighting wars to fix any of it.

Madara might think that there was no chance of him ever having children – not with the choices his heart had made – but thinking about someone else having to clean up the messes he had made was enough to make his teeth grit together with fury and frustration.

“So, we’re not replying to them?” Hashirama asked, voice tentative as he waved a hand over the letters from the other clans.

“I’ll draft a letter to Akimichi Chouta,” Mito said, “stating that we find his demands to be unacceptable.”

“Then…?” Hashirama prompted.

“We wait,” Madara said. His eyes turned towards the ranma, drawn irresistibly towards the north. “Izuna and Touka will bring news of that thing soon, and hopefully of Hikaku as well, and,” he shifted his gaze to the west, “Tobirama will come back from Uzushio soon.”

“That might be so, Uchiha-sama,” Mito said, voice carefully level and measured. “But I do not see how—”

“You said it yourself, Mito,” Madara interrupted her, eyes sliding shut. “We stand now on the precipice. It’s not only the moves we make that will make changes happen. In fact, our actions might mean absolutely nothing when the wind changes.” 

“Is that a hope, or a feeling?” Hashirama asked.

“A feeling,” Madara exhaled between his teeth. “A storm is coming; I can already feel it.”

“You know,” Hashirama said, voice contemplative. “I think Tobirama would find your ‘feelings’ to be absolutely fascinating, and he’d want to test them. Drag you into his lab and perform experiments on you.”

The mention of Tobirama should make him warm, and maybe flush if he didn’t manage to control his thoughts in time. But Madara felt a chill instead. Not like that which he had felt when Izuna had been in Uzushio, but similar enough that he bit down hard on his own lip.

Hashirama was waiting for a response. Madara clenched his hands and dug his nails into his palms.

“Yeah, he would,” he said. 

He hoped that, whatever happened next, there was a chance for Tobirama to drag him into his lab. Maybe Madara could convince him to explain at least a little bit of what he was doing and, with his knowledge of sealing theory newly-learned from Mito, get to see Tobirama smile when he actually understood what he was saying.

That, Madara thought, would be nice.

“Wait,” he turned, eyes flickering back to Hashirama. “What did you just say about Tobirama experimenting _on _me?”

Hashirama laughed so hard and loud that he fell on his back on his tatami, and gave absolutely no reply.

_Tobirama,_

_Things have been moving slower than any of us could’ve imagined. Maybe Mito had expected how difficult and laborious building this village would be, but I doubt that even she could have predicted that we haven’t even come up with a name nearly a year after agreeing to have it made, much less that no one has agreed to join the Uchiha and Senju in living here. There’s too much going on about that to be written down in these letters, and it gives me a headache just thinking about it, so you’ll just have to come back to see._

_Some better news: the clan is adjusting better to moving from our compound into the village. Izuna was absolutely right when he first told me that the Uchiha needed something concrete to serve as their contribution to the village, and the fact that the shinobi and the civilians have physically carried the foundation stones from our mines has helped a great deal in etching the move into their bones. There are still grumblings here and there about leaving our ancestral lands, but there will always be dissenting voices, and there are few enough here that it’s safe for me to ignore them._

_You have to ask Mito about how the Senju are adjusting. I tried asking Hashirama a few times, and then gave up. He always had the bad habit of not answering questions properly, but he has gotten so much more ANNOYING about it in the years that I didn’t see him. It’s really tempting to punch him sometimes._

_In any case, people have been asking me about you. Kagami and Maru ambushed me yesterday morning, asking when you will be back, because they miss their “besshitsu-sensei.” Suriko was with them, but she didn’t even try to correct the boys’ title for you. Instead, she just gave me these sad, accusing looks, as if it’s my fault that you’ve been gone for so long. It took everything I had to not remind her to get used to you being gone for at least two months every year if she wants the clan’s coffers – and, later, the village’s – to remain healthy. Though she might have a point – one that she didn’t say, but I could TELL – about us not needing the Uzushio money in the future now that our blacksmithing is back on track, yet I don’t think the Prince would agree to let you go entirely. Give me your thoughts on that, won’t you? It involves you, after all._

_Anyway, Kabato and his hooligan friends are up to their antics again. When I tried to take a bath, I had to deal with them making loud proclamations of thanks to you right in front of the bathhouse. It’s practically their daily ritual now that you’re not here to stop them, and it’s nearly enough to make me want to rush to Uzushio to drag you back so I don’t have to deal with the NOISE they make every single day._

_Shiomi keeps reminding me to make sure that you eat regularly. “I’m not there to bring food to besshitsu-san anymore, and he gets distracted so easily. You must make sure to remind him, Madara-sama, because I’d be very saddened if he comes back even thinner than before. It was so difficult for me to get some meat on his bones, and I don’t want all of my efforts to be lost.” I showed her this paragraph and she said that I missed out a lot of the details, and then we had a shouting match about just how much of her nagging I’m supposed to put into my letters to you._

_Safe to say, if you get a letter from Shiomi that’s entirely reminders for you to eat and sleep and bathe with long paragraphs of chiding, feel free to burn or tear it. I’ve had to deal with her nagging for years and I know just how bad she can get._

_I can go on and on about the clan, but this letter is really long already, and I haven’t even addressed anything of what you said. Speaking of which, how are your experiments going? I know that you usually don’t tell anyone about them while you’re still working on them, but I’ve been learning sealing theory from Mito, and I do have some knowledge of jutsu theory of my own. I don’t promise to entirely understand what you’re saying, but I will do my best._

_Of course, if you think it’s too tiring for you to try to explain what you’re doing, that’s fine with me as well. I just want to know what you’re doing. Not in the stalker-ish way that Hashirama does – I know you don’t think him stalker-like in how he keeps track of you, but that’s what it looks like to me – but because I’m interested. Actually, if you have some time to draw up the plans of the lab you have in Uzushio, it’d be great, because then I can “see” you puttering around there and it’ll be reassuring to me that you’re okay._

_… Do I sound as bad as Hashirama? I feel like I’m being as bad as Hashirama. In my defence, the Uchiha rule about not letting anyone be alone exists to make sure that every member of the clan has backup for whatever that might happen to them, and they can call for help if they need it. But now you’re in Uzushio alone and I’m STILL not comfortable with it, and _[huge splotch of ink]__

_ANYWAY, it’s really good to hear that you’ve mostly been working on your experiments, because that means that the weather in Uzushio is cooperating and you don’t have to battle typhoons. Write me back soon, alright? I would promise to not fuss as much in my next letter, but I don’t think I can keep it._

_Wait, I nearly forgot to say: what IS the name of the summon who delivers our letters? It’s always the same one, and she (he?) refuses to talk to me. I’m not sure what I have done to offend him (her?), honestly, and none of my usual tricks with cats have worked. PLEASE tell me her (his?) name. Or at least the gender so that I can stop using these stupid parentheses._

__Madara’s letter was nearly three pages long, the paper entirely filled with the sharp slashes with idiosyncratic curves that was his handwriting. Even though Tobirama had only received it yesterday, the edges were already starting to fray.

“—an unwise decision, Prince of Uzushio.”

Hands pausing in the middle of rolling Madara’s letter so he could slide it back into the metal tube used to protect it from saliva when Kazuyuki carried it in his mouth, Tobirama looked up, scanning his surroundings.

He had meant to head for his lab from his room, but Madara’s letter had distracted him so much that he had somehow meandered towards Hayase’s receiving room instead, and was now standing right outside it.

“I stand firm in what I have told you,” Hayase said, voice cold and flat. “And I do not appreciate being threatened.”

“That’s insulting, Prince of Uzushio,” a voice drawled. One that he had never heard before in Uzushio. Frowning, Tobirama touched his finger to his own throat, letting a chakra-suppression seal blossom into being. Then he sidled closer, listening.

“We ain’t threatening you,” the same voice continued, “only telling you that our daimyo’d be displeased ‘bout you refusing us, ‘specially since the offer’s so generous. Surely the Fire Daimyo’s not giving you nearly as much for your services?”

That dialect… Tobirama had heard it before. What were inhabitants of the Land of Lightning doing here, so far south from their usual territory?

“Take care of how you speak,” Hayase said, voice so cold that Tobirama could practically feel frost gathering on the lattices of the shogi screens. “Uzushio’s services can neither be bought nor sold.”

“What ‘bout your seals, then?” The strange voice asked. “Uzumaki storage scrolls are prized treasures even all the way up north.”

“Uzushio is flattered,” Hayase said, “by your regard for our skills and abilities. But I must repeat, once again, that I have absolutely no interest in any dealings with the Lightning Daimyo.” His chakra spiked sharply. “Nor in any kind of alliance with the shinobi village that he is now building.”

A shinobi village in the Land of Lightning. Tobirama’s eyes went wide.

None of them were fools: they knew that opposition to the village would come not only from the other clans within the Land of Fire, but also from the other countries on the continent as well, and maybe several from beyond it.

But it had only been ten months since they had received the daimyo’s permission, not even a year. Things on such a grand scale tended to move slowly, and Mito had guessed that they would likely have a year more before other villages started to be formed and they would have to deal with them. 

The Lightning Daimyo had moved very quickly, and Tobirama suspected that not even his older brother would be happy at the news. Hashirama might have been ecstatic about the idea of other villages forming in the countries around them – because it meant a possible path to the cessation of clan wars outside of the Land of Fire as well – but Tobirama knew that he wasn’t as much of an idiot to dismiss the possibility of those new villages seeing them as a threat.

“That’s disappointing to hear, Prince of Uzushio,” the Land of Lightning inhabitant drawled. “‘specially since we came all the way here hoping that you’d be reasonable.”

“Your efforts are appreciated,” Hayase returned, “but I am afraid that you’ll be returning empty-handed.”

Glancing at the door for a moment, Tobirama decided that there was no reason for him to be here. There was no one better in the world than one of the Uzumaki main house to get rid of unwanted guests politely and firmly, and Hayase was the one who had taught all of his children the skills they needed to do so.

Turning away, Tobirama headed towards his laboratory. The edges of the metal tube dug into the palm of his clenched fist, and he barely remembered to nod at the few Uzumaki who passed him on the way. Luckily, they simply bowed and didn’t attempt to talk to him, which allowed him to reach his destination in just a few minutes.

(It had been oddly difficult the past few weeks for him to get used again to the Uzumaki’s reverent silence around him. He had taken note of it before, of course, and had been uncomfortable because he would never understand why they would hold him in such high regard, but this particular trip had been… different, because every averted gaze made him think of the Uchiha compound.

He wanted to believe that it was because the Uchiha shinobi had averted eye contact the same way, but he had never been a good liar. Especially not to himself.

Though the hours he spent in his lab passed as quickly as they always did, he always felt this strangling sensation in his throat when he saw food being left at the door without anyone barging in to make sure that he ate. And whenever morning came and he found the candles he used drowned out by sunlight coming from the ranma, he would find his gaze turning east, and his mind foolishly recalling memories of Madara stomping into his room to order him to go to sleep.

When Madara had first left him here, Tobirama had tried convincing himself that he was glad to have his work uninterrupted by people nagging at him to waste his time on things like eating or sleeping. But those words rang hollow even in his own mind and, after a few days, he stopped trying.

How strange it was, to miss a place when he was somewhere else. He had always thought himself too pragmatic for such sentimentality.)

Shaking his head free of his thoughts, Tobirama closed and locked the lab’s door behind him. He headed straight for his main workstation, fingers finding the drawer for extra paper without looking. He wrote a few sentences – carefully, taking care to ensure the legibility of his handwriting – to inform Madara about what he had heard before he dried the ink with a twitch of his fingers.

Then he picked up the metal tube from where he had dropped it on the desk. Tobirama slid Madara’s letter from the inside and unrolled it carefully. He wanted to keep it with him, to read it over and over again until he gathered enough worthy material to write a reply, but now it wasn’t an option. He smoothed it out and placed it under the large crystal paperweight in the corner with the others instead.

(Madara’s letters formed a significantly higher pile than Hashirama’s and Mito’s put together. He always wrote _so much_, and never seemed to mind that Tobirama’s replies rarely reached a single page in length.)

Slipping the new piece of paper inside the metal tube, Tobirama bit his thumb. Kazuyuki popped up in front of him.

“That’s a surprise,” the snow leopard said, his voice a deep rumbling purr. “You usually take longer than that to write a reply.”

“This isn’t a reply,” Tobirama shook his head, “but important information.” Almost holding out the tube, his arm dropped back to his side as he blinked. “Why haven’t you spoken to Madara at all? He told me that you haven’t even given him your name.”

Snorting, Kazuyuki tossed his head back, amber eyes fixing on Tobirama’s. “I’ve been watching and waiting,” he said. Then, before Tobirama could ask the leopard what he actually _meant_, Kazuyuki made a motion that could only be described as a feline’s version of a raised eyebrow: head tilted, ears raised. “You might like him plenty, summoner, but he has to win our regard himself.”

“I don’t—” Tobirama started to protest. Then he thought better of it and sighed instead, holding out the tube. “Have you found what you’re looking for?”

“Some,” Kazuyuki replied cryptically. “He will be spoken to when he has been judged to be worthy enough.” He nudged Tobirama’s wrist, making him toss the tube up, and caught it with his mouth on its descent. “Will that be all, summoner?”

“Be careful,” Tobirama said. “The Lightning Daimyo have sent his envoys here, and I know nothing of either his motivations or his information network.” His lips twisted slightly. “And the road back to the village crosses the borders of the other clans.”

“Do not take me as one of you clumsy two-legged creatures,” Kazuyuki said. Despite his mouth being full, his words were as crisp and sharp as always. “If I do not wish to be caught, I will not be.”

“That is why I trust you with this,” Tobirama nodded towards the tube. Then, cautiously, he held out a hand, palm facing upwards. “Thank you.”

“To serve as your connection to your home is an honour,” Kazuyuki said, tail swishing as he turned towards the door. “And I might not see the reason for it, summoner, but I _have_ noticed that you have recently found a home. We all have.” His head turned, meeting Tobirama’s gaze over rippling muscles covered by black-spotted white fur. “And we are glad.”

Before Tobirama could reply, Kazuyuki unlocked the door and stepped outside. Wood smacked against wood as it slid back shut, the loud sound echoing around the lab. Tobirama watched the shadow of his summon as Kazuyuki moved down the hallway, and sighed when he turned the corner and vanished out of sight.

Given the leopard’s usual speed and his ability to use paths that not even shinobi-trained feet could access, the news would reach Madara in five days, six at most. Afterwards… Tobirama closed his eyes.

He had absolutely no idea what those in the village would do.

Tobirama had always thought of his time in Uzushio as part of his duty to the Senju, a way of proving his contributions to the clan in terms of spreading its reputation and cementing its power through the resources that the contract provided. Some years he had even been thankful for the months he spent here, because those were weeks he could spend, almost uninterrupted, with his research.

For the first time, he found himself resenting the contract, because it kept him away from the village.

The winds of change buffeted them, and unlike those that brought typhoons, seals could not be made to herald their approach. An ocean’s currents might seem unpredictable to those ignorant to seafaring ways, but they could be learned.

Not so the minds of men. Much less the minds of many of them, each of whom had their own concerns and motivations, and whose thoughts could not be read until they performed actions that rippled over land and water and air. By the time those actions were known, it could be too late to halt their effects.

Hissing out a breath, Tobirama forced his eyes open.

There was no use in lingering on these thoughts, he decided. Later, he would approach Hayase and admit that he had accidentally eavesdropped on his conversation with the envoys from the Land of Lightning, but now… He lifted his head, and scanned his lab.

The most useful jutsu for this situation was the one for solid clones he had been working on – and had tentatively named the Kage Bushin – but he had hit a block on that two days ago, and he knew his mind’s processes well enough that he would only be wasting his time if he tried to resolve it now. Which meant… his gaze slid towards the neat pile of notes at the right side of his workstation.

Well, he thought grimly to himself, the worst-case scenario would be that the Lightning Daimyo would see their new village to be enough of a threat to attack them, and a jutsu that could replicate Hashirama’s regeneration would definitely be useful, then. At the very least, ensuring that Madara and Izuna could use their Mangekyou to its full capacity without worrying about encroaching blindness meant that they had two Susano’o and two Amaterasu available.

… Were there other uses of the Mangekyou? Tobirama really should ask Madara more about it when he returned.

He strode purposefully towards his notes, rifling through them before he found his latest draft of the seal he was making. Nearly six full weeks of research had allowed him to fully break down Hashirama’s chakra and isolate its regenerative properties. Like he had suspected, it was tied heavily to the mokuton.

The mokuton, he traced his fingers over the notes, was a bloodline limit that allowed a user to combine earth and water affinities together. The name in itself was in truth a misnomer: Hashirama controlled not only wood, but plants as a whole, and he could do so because plants required earth and water to grow. Given that, the properties of growth were embedded within the linking together of earth and water—

No, Tobirama corrected himself, groping blindly for a brush and more paper. He had been wrong, because the earth and water affinities weren’t _linked_ together. Links were bridges, a single connecting point, but bloodline limits making use of two affinities had those two tied together. A better term, Tobirama thought as he started to write, was _woven_: multiple threads, each one of a single aspect of an affinity, and all of them knotted together to form a whole tapestry.

Shoving his notes away, Tobirama lunged for seals that stored Hashirama’s chakra. Growth was in its own way dangerous, especially in a body: unchecked cells became tumours, which eventually became fatal as they took up so much space that healthy, working cells were strangled to death. Was there any need for him to insert some kind of stopper within the seal’s design such that the growth didn’t continue endlessly?

No, he decided once he studied the chakra with his senses. If he followed the template for Hashirama’s regeneration, it would stop by itself. In fact, Hashirama’s mokuton limited growth by nature, because it could not _start_ without a template guiding it. Tobirama had always known this: Hashirama always carried seeds inside his sleeves so he could use mokuton even without earth or ground around. 

Seeds on the ground. Spores inside lungs. Wait.

Growth, regeneration, healing: all of these required there to be cells present in the first place to serve as a template. But Hashirama’s mokuton didn’t use spores to create more spores; the spores became _ferns_. At the same time, Hashirama still had to grow up normally: even after he manifested his mokuton, he couldn’t use it to become an adult immediately. Tobirama knew that he had tried.

This meant that – Tobirama’s breathing started to speed up – Hashirama’s regeneration and his mokuton worked on _separate _principles. Mokuton used chakra to force cells to _age_, leading to seeds becoming full-fledged plants in the matter of minutes, _and _allowing seeds to become houses and furniture became they followed not only the plants’ original DNA, but also Hashirama’s imagination. 

His regeneration worked on a much simpler principle: it simply _replicated _new cells based on existing ones to replace those that had died, which explained why Hashirama, despite the injuries he had incurred throughout his career as a shinobi, had no scars. Scars, after all, were not written into DNA.

The two abilities shared the same roots and trunk – the combination of earth and water affinities – but they were different branches.

Now that he could see it, it was so obvious. Why had Tobirama never realised it before? How had he been so blind, so _stupid_?

He had no time right now to castigate himself. Tobirama focused harder on the chakra, and compared it with the seal he used to summon Hashirama’s chakra as a whole.

Yes, he realised, straightening and ignoring his shoulders’ ache from being bent over for so long. He _could_ replicate the regeneration without mokuton. In fact, he could do so without having to use Hashirama’s chakra at _all_.

Scrambling for his notes, Tobirama cursed his hands for moving slowly as he started to write. 

The seal he needed to make must thus consist of four components: first to transform the user’s original affinity into earth and water, second to weave those two affinities together in a way that copied Hashirama’s chakra during his regeneration and _only _that, third to identify places that required healing, and last to apply that chakra upon whatever that needed to be healed.

He took a deep breath and set the brush down. Then, moving quickly, he grabbed all of his books on sealing theory in the lab, all of his notes, dumped everything on the floor, and sat down. Now that he finally _saw _what needed to be done, he would have a draft of the seal completed before he left his lab. 

Hours passed. Tobirama barely noticed it, and only stood from the floor to gather candles and light them when sunlight vanished. He registered at some points knocks on the door, but they were soft and brief and thus easily ignored. At some point, the sun returned, so he blew out the candles and shoved the stubs out of the way and kept going.

By the time he lifted his head from his work, his body was threatening to seize from being in the same position for hours at end, but he _did_ have a working draft. All of the theoretical underpinnings were correct – he had checked them over and over again – and he just needed to experiment. Luckily, he always had a ready subject at hand.

Withdrawing one of the kunai he usually kept in the drawers of his workstation, Tobirama sliced a long line on his left arm, from palm down to the elbow. Blood spilled immediately, and there was a very brief moment of dizziness before he focused on the seal, gathered all of the theory in his head, and let it shift from his mind to his skin.

The cut stitched together on its own, edges of split skin joining back together. The dizziness faded back into the slight headache that came from working too long – something he was used to so much that he barely noticed it – as the seal forced his blood cells to replicate to replace the minor loss. Reaching for one of the papers containing his failed drafts, Tobirama mopped up the red, and used a toe to swipe it over the floor to clean it as well.

Alright, he nodded to himself. But that was an extremely minor injury on a body part that could easily heal – even a medic apprentice could heal that in seconds – and the most important part was yet to come. He settled back to sit on the floor and leaned against his workstation.

Throughout his research to ensure that Madara didn’t go blind, he had studied plenty of regarding the anatomy of eyes. 

The eye itself was mostly made of water with blood vessels running through it; generally unimportant except for its structural purpose. The important parts that controlled vision was in the front and back of the eyeballs themselves, and Tobirama had concerned himself mostly with practically only the back. Partly because the damage of the Mangekyou was primarily concentrated on the ocular nerve, chakra coils, and retinal blood vessels that linked the eyeball to the brain, and partly because he realised his own vision was so terrible because the rod cells and cone cells that laid at the back curve of the eyeball were damaged. There was some strange distortion to the lenses at the front, too, but he had mostly ignored that.

He took a long, deep breath. Then another. He raised his hands to the level of his own eyes, close enough that he could see the whorls of his own prints. Shaping the seal once more in his mind, he exhaled, and, at the same time, pressed his fingertips against his eyeballs.

The seal blossomed into being. Tobirama could feel his chakra rushing in and being transformed… but nothing happened. He forced himself to not blink or tilt his head, and tried again. Nothing.

But there _was _damage. He could feel it right _there_, at the back of his eyeballs, the rod and cone cells so different from Hashirama’s that they could barely be considered to be of the same category. So why… 

Concentrating even harder, he put the seals over his eyes again. This time, he _forced_ the transformed chakra even further, shifting specific components of the seal so as to direct the chakra to focus upon what he _knew_ could and had to be healed. It washed over his eyeballs, the sensation alien enough to nearly make him shiver, and reached the cone and rod cells. He held them there, urging the seal to _work_, to make him see clearly as he had never done in his entire life—

The world went entirely dark. His eyes were open, but there was only black.

Tobirama’s breath stopped in his throat. He forced the air out, and pressed his fingers against his eyeballs again.

This time, he didn’t use the seal. He sent a thread of chakra instead, and… 

Oh. What used to be damaged cells were now _dead _cells, and— _calm, _he reminded himself; Father had always said that he had a bad temper and he had to leash it and not be used by it— but there was no reason…

Ah. No wonder it hadn’t worked. There was no way it would have worked, and it wasn’t the seal’s fault, but his own.

Regeneration required a template and healthy cells to replicate. Tobirama didn’t _have_ healthy cells for it to work with; so, there was no way the seal could have worked. When Tobirama had pumped even more chakra into it, he had simply forced the damaged cells to replicate in such large numbers that his blood couldn’t keep up the oxygen supply. Thus, they suffocated, and died. 

All at once.

He had to say it. He had to think it. He wouldn’t allow himself to shy away from admission because there was _no use_ in that and there was so much he had to do in order to make up for this mistake that had no way whatsoever to be reversed—

“I think,” his own voice echoed strangely in the silent lab, strange to his own ears with how tremulous it was, “I just blinded myself.” He swallowed. It was very loud. “Permanently.”

There was a scream building at the back of his throat. He quashed it ruthlessly. Took another breath to stop his hands from shaking.

Strange how it felt now he could not _see_ it.

Deliberately, Tobirama forced himself to repeat: “I am now permanently blind.” His throat felt horribly heavy. He wanted to gag. He swallowed hard, and repeated it again.

_Think_, he commanded himself when repetitions did not work to calm him down. _Think_. He needed to figure this out— ah. There _was _something he could do.

Tobirama shifted his attention entirely to his chakra sense – this was good practice, because he would have to rely on this heavily now – and turned it inwards and once more towards his eyes. He had done this to Hashirama to figure out how regeneration worked on tiny cells, and he repeated the process on himself: mapping the ocular nerve and its surrounding chakra coils and blood vessels with his chakra sense, he slowly, methodically, started to destroy them.

Something hot was running down his cheeks. Tobirama wiped the liquid away, and kept killing his own cells.

Once he was sure that everything in that general region of both eyes was dead, and brought the seal back to the forefront of his mind again and gathered chakra on his fingers. Focusing his attention on the seal, he laid it upon his eyeballs. 

Nothing happened. All of the cells he had just destroyed remained so.

“There are two limits to this seal,” Tobirama said aloud. “The first limit is that it cannot heal inborn faults of a body, and the second of which is that, if there are no healthy cells remaining, it does not work.”

He should write this down. He needed to figure out how to write now that he couldn’t see. No matter how close he put his face to the paper, he _couldn’t see_. He would never— he could never—

Madara’s letters. Madara’s _face_. Hashirama’s, Touka’s, Mito’s. Even Izuna’s. Kagami and Mikami and Maru and Komaki and Shiomi and Suriko and Tsurugi and Kabato and all of the fishermen and all of the civilians who had ever met his eyes and smiled and, oh gods, he would never meet anyone’s eyes again, he had no eyes left to meet with anyone’s, and he had— he was—

Blind. Not only nearly so, but completely. Permanently.

His hands skittered across the tiles, nails screeching. He grabbed his papers without care of crumbling them – he would never read them again, he could never read them again – and shoved them all over his mouth.

And he screamed. And screamed. Again and again, over and over, until his body seized up and his throat ached and his ears rang from the echoes of it reverberating in his skull, and it did nothing and was of no use but he couldn’t help himself and there was still heat dripping down his cheeks and he couldn’t even see to check if it was blood or if it was tears because he couldn’t _see_, he couldn’t—

Tobirama squeezed his eyes shut. Let out a breath. Pulled the papers away from his mouth, and set them on the floor. 

Less than a week left before he could leave Uzushio. If there were no typhoons, he could stay here in the lab for as long as he could. Five days. He had five days to try to figure out how to live without being able to see and, more importantly, to hide his stupid, stupid, _stupid_ mistake from everyone.

Slowly, he raised his hand to his mouth and bit his thumb. Then he slammed it down on the floor.

Air crackled. The smell of snow in the middle of summer. A low, rumbling growl, and then a cold nose butting against his temple hard enough to bowl him over.

“What do you _want_, summoner?”

“Mifuyu,” he gasped out. His fingers brushed over rough fur when he stretched out his arms, and he scrambled to his knees. The air _popped_ suddenly, and Tobirama could feel whiskers brush his palms but that wasn’t right, because Kazuyuki’s head reached his waist and Mifuyu was far older, was only a step away from being the head summons of the snow leopards, and—

“Cub.” The rumbling growl had gentled, and rough fur brushed over his cheek. “What did you do to yourself, cub?”

“I need your help,” Tobirama gasped out. “I need— Mifuyu, I can’t— I can’t _see_, I—”

“Come,” Mifuyu said, and that was the only warning before Tobirama felt fangs graze his neck. He kept very still as the leopard dragged him closer, until his body was leaning entirely on hers, and he shuddered when her tongue ran over her face. 

“Breathe, cub,” Mifuyu murmured. “Then tell me what you need.”

This time, Tobirama knew the liquid running down his cheeks were tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that you guys kept talking about wanting to see the scene where Madara and Izuna realised Tobirama’s near-blindness, and I’ve never addressed that directly, and I kept putting hints that they had no idea.
> 
> Because I was leading up to this.
> 
> Yes, it’s permanent. Yes, this was planned for and foreshadowed. Yes, this has _massive_ consequences.
> 
> All that also applies to the Ino-Shika-Cho clans and their plotting. :>


	17. the strength of memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings: **Multiple limited third-person POVs mean that, sometimes, the POV character isn’t what you hoped for. In other words, this is again not the chapter you are waiting for, but it is an extremely important one, nonetheless.
> 
> More relevant to warnings: there are some pretty explicit descriptions of amputation and implications of torture in the first scene.

Roots covered every inch of the ground, some jutting straight upwards like those of swamp mangroves. But the tips were far too sharp, as if sliced with a knife, to belong to anything that grew naturally. And though the soil sank beneath her weight with every step, there was not enough water, tepid and muddy or otherwise, that could classify this place as a swamp instead of a forest. Most importantly, neither moss nor mushrooms grew on the roots, nor on any of the stumps of fallen trees that dotted the ground.

Overhead, leaves and branches grew so thick and close together that only the barest slices of sunlight could peek through, and where the light fell white bones shone, hollow and picked clean. Touka had seen plenty of remnants of the dead, but none with ribcages large enough to fit her body. 

No birds chirped. No animals chittered. The forest was utterly silent, with a stillness that she had only ever heard before on a battlefield before the Uchiha or Hagoromo tried to launch a surprise attack, and that only ever lasted for seconds.

They had been here for hours. She tested each step carefully before she placed her foot because there was no way to tell whether she would be stepping on soil or bone or wood, and if any of those could bear her weight. Her joints creaked from how tightly she held herself throughout all of them.

“This place,” Izuna said, his voice echoing loudly, “creeps me the fuck out.”

He might hold a torch in one hand, but the flickering flames were nowhere as bright as the spinning crimson of his Sharingan. Despite the months that they had been travelling together, Touka still kept her own gaze on a cheekbone instead of meeting those terrifying eyes.

“It’s not called the Mountains’ Graveyard for no reason,” she replied, dry.

“There are graveyards, and there is this fucking place,” Izuna muttered. “What died here, do you think? Youkai? A gigantic tengu, maybe?”

“I don’t think there are any legends of youkai being this huge,” Touka shrugged. “It’s more likely to be some kind of animal that has long died out.”

“An animal big enough that its bones alone are taller than trees.” Tipping his head up, Izuna squinted at the canopy above. “I _really_ hope that it died of old age or sickness or something like that, because just imagining that there’s something strong enough to kill it is rather horrifying.”

“More than a creature that can change its shape _and_ mess with your mind?” Touka asked, arch.

Izuna opened his mouth. His teeth clicked shut together abruptly. 

Touka’s body moved before she even knew it, darting forward and grabbing him by both biceps to drag him backwards. Izuna yelped, torch falling from his hand to tumble to the ground. A sharp sizzle rang out as flames guttered and died and, as the both of them watched, viscous darkness crept across the surface of the wood and pulled it down.

“How many times is it now?” Izuna asked, his voice slightly tremulous and Sharingan fixed upon the sinking branch that had once been their source of light.

“Haven’t been counting,” Touka said. Once she was sure that his feet were steady enough to hold his weight, she released him and stepped away. “Though you probably saved my ass just as many times.”

“Does it still grate to admit that you owe an Uchiha something?” Izuna asked, turning his back on her and brushing fingers over his long sleeves.

If there was anything Touka had learned of Izuna over their weeks of travel together, it was that the man was far smarter than he liked to act, and there were usually several reasons behind every uttered word, and even more behind every action.

Staring at the pale strip of skin revealed by his collar and high tail of hair, Touka considered the question. She had never been terribly good with words – when it came to pulling the wool over people’s eyes, images and sounds were her forte, while words and clothes had always been left to Mito – so she shrugged.

“I wouldn’t have allowed you to guard me when I sleep if it did,” she finally said.

Reaching up and snapping a branch off the nearest tree, Izuna made a small hand sign and blew fire from between his lips. Steam shielded his face for brief moments as the branch dried. Just when the bark crackled and threatened to snap, Izuna pulled back and aimed the flames on the tip. It caught immediately.

The first thing the new torch illuminated was the spinning tomoes of his eyes. Touka immediately turned to stare at the long fingers of his hands wrapped around the branch.

“Mito-san introduced you as her apprentice,” he said, voice steady in a way that made Touka narrow her eyes. “But you’re not very good at this politics thing, are you?”

“Would I be an apprentice if I were?” Touka snapped back. “And is there a reason why you keep using the Sharingan even when there’s enough light?”

“Several,” Izuna said. Irritatingly, he turned his back on her again and held the torch up high. “I’ll leave to guess which. It’ll be good practice!”

“Are you asking me to treat you like an enemy or a threat?” Touka asked, incredulous despite herself. “If that’s your intention, you’re succeeding really well, because I’m _really_ tempted right now to just let you drown in the mud the next time you make a mistake. Or, better yet, push you in.”

Throwing his head back, Izuna laughed, the sound reverberating around the silent forest and piercing to Touka’s ears even as the chill of the darkness retreated further from her chest. “I’d like to see you try,” he said, voice shaking with the force of his mirth. “It’ll be good training for me, too.”

Huffing, Touka shoved her hands into her sleeves and darted her eyes to the side so she wouldn’t actually make good on her threat, and ignored how easily her shoulders moved now. It had nothing to do with the sound of Izuna’s laughter, in any case, and—

“You might need training for more than just that,” Touka said. “Because you seemed to have missed something even with that great Sharingan of yours activated.”

“Oh, I didn’t,” Izuna said, turning his head unerringly to the same direction. “I was just waiting to see when you would realise.”

Ignoring that jibe, Touka gathered chakra onto the surfaces of her palms and snapped off a few standing roots near her feet. The slime threatened shivers down her spine, but she had been a warrior and soldier for years, and so she refused to be affected by such a tiny thing. They were difficult to hold, however, so making hand signs without dropping them was an issue.

“Give them to me,” Izuna said, understanding what she was planning without her having to explain. Touka ignored what she felt about that, too, and tossed the broken-off sticks over. When he handed them back, lit flames flickering at the tips, she flung them as hard as she could.

They smacked against something solid, the flames illuminated a mixture of grey and green and brown that looked almost like moss-covered stone. Narrowing her eyes, Touka stepped forward, her shoulder brushing against Izuna’s as he matched her stride for stride.

If this was a cave, it was unlike any she had ever seen – she had been on enough missions throughout the Land of Fire to be familiar with quite a number – and it wasn’t like anything she could have expected from the ribcage she had just walked through, either.

The mouth seemed like any other cave: a yawning cavern bracketed by stone, though the green patches did not resemble any kind of she could identify. She dropped her head back. She could see a darker patch of black stretching all the way upwards from the ground, seemingly narrowing at a top that extended far beyond the top of the trees’ canopy. That meant that the cave itself should be rather large, with a height that would be enough for Izuna to stretch up his hands while standing on her shoulders without bumping against anything. 

Yet Touka could see – from the light of the thrown wood, though their flames slowly sputtering out from contact with the muddy ground – that the ceiling was right _there_, low enough that Izuna would only have to sit on her shoulders to touch it. The narrowness of the cave was also strange, because the stone spread outwards enough to be enough for her and Izuna to stand next to each other with plenty of space left.

If there was anything her entire career as a shinobi had taught her, it was to suspect anything that did not fit how things should be. 

“We need more light,” Izuna murmured. Then, before Touka could ask him what he meant or stop him from blowing a fireball into the cave, he held up a hand.

Air crackled, white light coalescing into lightning that sparked and danced between each of his fingers. Touka turned to him and saw, suddenly, a spiky mass of white hair instead of neatly-tied black. She blinked, and shook her head hard to dislodge the image.

Izuna wasn’t her little cousin. He might have lightning as his secondary affinity and do the same tricks with it as Tobirama could, but he _wasn’t_, and Touka needed to— she had to get some control of her mind because it was starting to wander into treacherous waters, and they were headed into some _actual _danger and she couldn’t afford to be distracted.

“Are you coming along?”

He was already standing at the mouth of the cave. The ball of lightning in his hand cast dancing shadows across his face, sharpening his high cheekbones and reddening his lips. The stream of dark hair down his back shimmered with a strange gloss that had remained even after six weeks of living primarily outdoors, and his pale skin gleamed with sweat and humidity.

Touka swallowed, and threw out the first words that came to her head: “I’m not like you, charging ahead without thinking.”

Throwing his head back, Izuna laughed again. This time, it was so much harder to ignore the sudden spreading warmth in her chest, or the loosening of her muscles at the sound.

“You have me mistaken for someone else,” Izuna said, and elbowed her lightly as she came up to stand beside him. “You miss him, too, don’t you?”

She blinked. They had taken care to not mention either of their families – not even when Izuna had demanded to head into towns to get paper or when he summoned his crows, both of which obviously to send letters to Madara like the Uchiha Clan Head had demanded – because there was too much history between the Senju and the Uchiha for them to safely tread upon those topics. Especially since they had to watch each other’s backs, and any kind of resentment or anger could get either or both of them killed.

Izuna must have mistaken her silence to mean something else, because he shrugged and said, “He’s been living in my house for months. Is it so surprising that I’ve learned to like him?” 

“It’s been months,” Touka pointed out through a suddenly-dry throat. “The two of you have been fighting each other for years.”

“Maybe,” Izuna shrugged again, seeming to toss away those years – years that, Touka had heard rumoured, the Sharingan kept as perfect memories – without care. “But he’s surprisingly easy to like once I learned how to talk to him.”

“Oh,” Touka said. Then, because she wanted this conversation to be over – it made her itch under her skin, prodding at her nerves and strengthening the urge to turn and look her fill of Izuna – she focused on the dark path ahead. “Let’s go on.”

“You better take something to light your way,” Izuna said. When Touka tilted her head to the side – she would not look at him, she would _not_ – he sighed. “I don’t know what’s inside, but there’s always a chance that we can be separated. Unless you’ve gained the ability to see in the dark?”

“Will it actually kill you,” Touka said, exasperated despite herself even as she headed back out of the cave to grab more wood, “to _stop_ making these side comments?”

“Quite possibly!” Izuna admitted easily, and the cheer in his voice was nearly as bright as the lightning in his hand. “I’ve never really tried to test it, and now really isn’t a good time.”

“Neither is it a good time for you to piss me off enough that I’d actually do something about it,” she retorted.

“Hasn’t happened in six weeks,” Izuna shrugged, and bumped his shoulder against hers _again_ when she came back to his side. He blew a small katon over the branches she held out, and then grinned, sparks lingering on his lips illuminating his bright white teeth, “I’ll take my chances.” 

Rolling her eyes, Touka turned to face the inside of the cave again. “Come on,” she beckoned him impatiently. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Yeah,” Izuna said, mirth fading from both face and voice as he squared his shoulders. “Let’s find the damned thing.”

They walked, footsteps breaking the unnaturally-deep silence around them. No matter how much Touka strained her ears, she couldn’t hear any hint of animals that lingered inside caves: not even a single insect, much less snakes or bats. Perhaps that could be explained by the rustling of their clothes against the walls of the cave and the tops of their head against the ceiling, but that was too simple an explanation.

There was nothing natural about this forest and this cave. Fitting, she thought grimly, because there had been nothing ordinary or expected about that creature that had forced Izuna to stab Tobirama, either.

“Say,” Izuna started, and dodged the elbow to the face that Touka had sent him. “This is just a thought, but, uh… How sure are you that we can find the creature here?”

“Do you want the truth or the hopeful version of it?” she asked, sliding a glance towards it.

“I’m a shinobi,” Izuna said, sounding insulted.

Stifling a rising laugh, Touka shrugged. “Zero percent.” When Izuna stared at her, black eyes wide and full of askance, Touka laughed. “I told you that the trail ended at the edge of the forest, didn’t I? At this point, I’m just guessing.”

“Based on what’s the creepiest thing around and going straight for it?” Izuna asked.

“Pretty much,” Touka said. When he snorted, she raised an eyebrow without turning. “I thought you’d be used to walking practically blind after all this time.”

“You’re telling an Uchiha to get used to being blind,” Izuna said, the lightning ball in his hand trembling a little from the force of the laughter he muffled by biting his own lip. “That’s a really tall order, you know that?”

“Spontaneously grow a chakra sense, then, if you’re so opposed,” Touka flung at him carelessly.

“That’s not how it works—” Izuna started, but whatever he was going to say was abruptly cut off when Touka lunged at him, slamming a hand over his mouth. His eyes went wide, red creeping in back at the edges, but she shook her head, and pointed her finger upwards.

There it was again, that _sound_. The first not caused by either of them. Something like a very muffled shout, or even a scream. Then it came again. And again.

Touka withdrew her hand. The moment she did, Izuna took a deep breath, and held up both hands. The ball of lightning grew until it was bigger than his head, throwing the walls and ceiling of the cave into sharp relief. She barely had a moment to note the sweat beading between his brows from the effort before she slammed her focus back into looking around.

No possible entrances. She narrowed her eyes, and punched the nearest wall. The impact shot up her arm and rattled through her bones. The stone was entirely solid. Just when she was about to try another spot, that noise came again, and Izuna’s nails were suddenly digging into her elbow.

“Hikaku.” His breathing was loud and sharp. “That’s Hikaku. I’m sure of it.”

No other explanation was necessary. Nodding, Touka dropped to a squat as the lightning in Izuna’s hands sputtered into almost nothing. Then she nodded and he moved, swinging both legs onto her shoulders. Once he was steady, she straightened her legs. At the resounding _thump_ of his hands hitting the ceiling, she stopped.

“Don’t get hit by rock,” she said. “I don’t want to carry both you and your clansman out of here.”

“Not going to happen,” Izuna said. The last word had barely finished echoing around them when a far, far louder _thud_ rang out. Then another, and another, punctuated by what Touka was now also sure was Hikaku’s muffled screaming.

Another hit, and the cave started to shake around them. Touka squeezed her eyes shut and dug deep into herself, drawing out the wind chakra between her lungs, and blew it out just as Izuna threw another chakra-enhanced punch into the ceiling.

There was a sudden, roaring _boom_, followed by a cascade of rocks. Touka kept hissing out breaths that changed into small fuuton jutsu the moment they left her lips, each one flinging broken-off rock and pebble away from them. The cave _shuddered_ hard with yet another punch, the sheer noise nearly drowning out Izuna’s triumphant cry. 

Gripping tightly onto Izuna’s ankles, Touka _flung_ him upwards. She kept her arms raised, and eventually she felt fingers closing around her wrist, and jumped just as Izuna pulled sharply, nearly hard enough to jar her shoulder’s socket, and threw herself forward.

Smooth rock met her forehead as she rolled on the ground, legs tucked to her chest. Izuna yelped, but she simply shoved him to the side as much as she could, scrambling to get away from the hole he had made as more rock broke off and fell downwards. Then two pairs of hands clenched around her sleeves, and Touka let herself be dragged even as she noticed that one of them definitely wasn’t Izuna.

Slowly, the sounds of the cave-in faded, leaving behind three different pairs of lungs gasping for breath. Touka kept her eyes shut, fingers splaying upon the rock to steady herself as she folded her legs beneath her body and straightened her back.

“This isn’t a natural cave, not entirely,” she said once she had enough breath to speak. “Doton was used to create its shape at the start.”

“I’m sure you’re right, Touka-san.”

She might not have spoken to him much, but Touka had once been the third-strongest of the battlefield shinobi in her clan. Uchiha Hikaku performed the same role is his, and now that she wasn’t hearing it through layers of stone, his voice was perfectly recognisable. 

Slowly, she raised her head and opened her eyes.

Izuna was less than a metre from her, panting with his legs stretched out and leaning back on one spread hand and the fingers of the other curled with lightning once again sparking at the tips. And beside him was…

Touka stared. Besides the dirt on his face, the weight he had clearly lost, and the ragged clothes he wore, Uchiha Hikaku looked the same as he always did, poised and with a strange kind of elegance that she had attributed to every Uchiha until she started interacting with Izuna and Madara on a regular basis. 

But that applied only to his top half. Touka swallowed hard.

“Forgive me for not standing to greet you,” Uchiha Hikaku said, a crooked smile on his pale and wan face. “But as you see, I can no longer do such a thing.”

Blood stained the dirty cloth of his trousers, and the ends of them were knotted right below the knees. There was only empty space beyond that. 

Whatever had brought him here had cut off his legs. 

“Well,” Izuna said, and Touka could hear from the eerie steadiness of his voice that he was close to trembling with rage, “that explains why you have been trapped here for all of this time.”

“Exactly as you suspect, Izuna-sama,” Uchiha Hikaku said, still in that nearly-cheerful tone of voice. “The creature that brought me here ensured that there was no way that I could escape.” His head tilted to the side, and his shoulders lifted in— was that a _shrug_? “It seems to have some plans for me, of which I know some details.”

“How—” Touka finally managed to get her voice to work. “How can you sit there and— and _tell _us these things like— like that?”

“What use is there in raging or crying, Touka-san?” Uchiha Hikaku asked. “Especially now that you are here, and the possibility of me dying in this cave has moved away from being a near-absolute certainty.”

“Hikaku,” Izuna breathed, sitting up straight. The black tomoes of his Sharingan spun as his clansman turned to face him. “As clan heir, I sincerely apologise that I have not managed to protect you. As part of the main house, I take the fault of your kidnapping and the harms caused on you upon myself, and I swear—”

“No need,” Uchiha Hikaku cut him off. Izuna startled, nearly falling forward, and Uchiha Hikaku reached out and steadied him with a hand on his shoulder, which made Izuna squeeze his eyes shut. “You honour me with your intention to swear, Izuna-sama, but please understand that I cannot allow you to take that burden. To allow you to do so will threaten my role, and if you do so, death will come for it. So, please, Izuna-sama, do not swear if you wish for me to stay alive.” 

“Oh,” Izuna said. His swallow was very loud as his head bobbed. “I withdraw my words.” 

“Thank you,” Uchiha Hikaku said, and bowed as much as he could while remaining seated. (Because he had no choice. Because that— that _thing_ had made sure that Hikaku couldn’t stand, much less walk, ever again—)

Eyes darting between the two of them, Touka rubbed a hand over her face. “Will either of you,” she enunciated sharply, “explain what that means?”

“Do you know of my role within the Uchiha, Touka-san?” Uchiha Hikaku asked, his eyes still fixed on Izuna.

“You are the third strongest and their record-keeper,” Touka answered, frowning. “I don’t see—”

“My strength matters little,” Hikaku interrupted her, waving a hand. “If I die, then another would take my place as third strongest, for that is how ranking goes.” The corner of his lips twitched upwards. “My position as the record-keeper is of far greater significance, for every story of the clan lives within me. In here,” he tapped the corner of one eye, and then above at the temple, “lives every Uchiha ever born since the clan has been formed.”

Slowly, Touka nodded. She still didn’t understand.

“If I die,” Uchiha Hikaku continued, “the records of the clan will die with me.” His smile widened, and it was so hollow that it reminded Touka of Hashirama at his worst moments. She fought down a shudder. “Do you understand why that means, Touka-san?”

Despite how strange all that sounded – why would the Uchiha want to remember _every _single member of their clan who had ever lived, much less appoint a single person to store all of those memories in their head? – Touka did. 

Uchiha Hikaku had stayed alive during his period of captivity, had kept on living and fighting despite the hopelessness of his situation and the impossibility of him returning to his career as a shinobi, because he was responsible for keeping his clan’s history alive. He had kept breathing simply because…

Because he could not stop. Because he had refused to allow himself to stop.__  
  
Touka had never expected to look upon an Uchiha and feel this— this sense of not only respect, but _admiration_ welling up in her chest. Her lips parted, but her throat locked and no words came to her.

She could only throw herself forward, palms slapping against the stone ground before she touched her forehead to the diamond her fingers had made.

“Now that’s just unfair,” Izuna drawled. “I’ve been trying my best to get her to respect me properly, and now she hands it to you on a silver platter.”

“I would apologise for that, Izuna-sama,” Hikaku returned, voice equally dry. “But I don’t think I will.”

Somehow, those casual words managed to unlock Touka’s throat. Lifting her head, she kept her eyes fixed on the floor as she said, “Senju Touka offers her ally, Uchiha Hikaku-san, her back until the time when he no longer wants it.”

“Are you sure?” Hikaku asked. “I do not wish to refuse, but I am not exactly light.” 

“She’s a lot stronger than she looks,” Izuna said, clearly amused.

“I am aware of Touka-san’s strength,” Hikaku said, and Touka had to stifle a snort. Of course he was; he had fought her for years. “But my point still stands.”

“My strength is more than enough,” she said, finally raising her head to meet his eyes. Even when she realised that his Sharingan had activated, she did not look away. It was understandable that he had turned it on, after all: he _should _be recording the occasion when a Senju who wasn’t Hashirama or Tobirama offered their aid to an Uchiha who wasn’t Madara or Izuna. 

Funny; Touka might have worked to ensure that the peace agreement between the Senju and the Uchiha went through, and had chipped in her share for the building of the village, but never had she felt that her efforts had been worth it.

Not until now.

“There is no need for you to worry for my sake,” she finished, and did not look away even as Hikaku’s Sharingan fixed on her, spinning slowly.

“This is _so _unfair,” Izuna groused. Both of them ignored him.

Straightening even further, Hikaku lifted a hand from where both had been lying on the floor. He placed it over his heart, and lowered his head. “Uchiha Hikaku,” he pronounced, “is honoured by the offer made by his ally, Senju Touka-san, and gratefully accepts.” When he lifted his head, his smile shone brightly enough to be reflected in Sharingan red. “Will you please carry me out of here, Touka-san?”

“Gladly, Hikaku-san,” Touka nodded decisively. “Izuna, help him get on my back.”

“Oh, he gets a -san, and I don’t?” Izuna grumbled even as he stood. “I’m starting to get Nii-san’s point whenever he complains about not getting respect.”

“If you keep complaining, I’ll leave you behind,” Touka threatened, turning her back on both Uchiha and bending her legs into a squat.

“As if you could,” Izuna snorted, already throwing one of Hikaku’s arms over his own shoulders. “You need me for light, or are you going to crawl around in the light, hoping to find the exit instead of something even creepier.”

“Have you forgotten that I can use katon as well?” Touka turned her voice poison-sweet even as she took Hikaku’s wrists and hoisted him up onto her back. “Your ambition to be a noisy lantern leaves me in awe, Izuna-_kun_.” 

“You know,” Hikaku said, voice contemplative and breath ghosting over her jaw, “when I realised that it was you accompanying Izuna-sama instead of Madara-sama, Touka-san, I had thought that I would be spared from the usual nonsense that usually follows Izuna-sama—”

“Hey!”

“But it seems,” Hikaku continued as if Izuna hadn’t protested; Touka sniggered, “that Izuna-sama’s ridiculousness is contagious. My condolences to you for being infected, Touka-san.”

Jerking her head towards Izuna to get him to lead the way forward, Touka snorted. “For all the prim and proper front that you put on, Hikaku-san, you’re not any better.”

“That is a grievous insult,” Hikaku said, voice so serious and grave that Touka couldn’t help the sharp laugh that burst out of her. Which was a mistake, because it was difficult enough for her to try to jump from the top level of the cave down to the bottom while avoiding all of the fallen rocks _without_ being distracted.

She was saved from falling on her face and sending Hikaku crashing onto the ground by Izuna steadying her by the shoulders. 

“Thanks,” she nodded curtly.

Izuna leaned in, squinting as he stared at her with black eyes flecked with brief sparks of blue-white from the lightning he still held as a light source. “Did the air in this creepy place affect you? You’ve never said that to me before.”

For that, he received a smack across the back of the head. Touka rolled her eyes and started for the cave’s entrance. She remembered the path she had taken here well enough that she could, in a pinch, walk it with only the barest hint of light while focusing only on the different sounds her feet made on the stone. She had to be, in order to be a kunoichi who walked out into the battlefield with her face uncovered.

(Her parents weren’t like her uncle and aunt; she never had to suffer through the pain of knowing that her father had driven her mother to death even if he had not killed her outright. But women had their place within the Senju, one that Touka had wanted to and did eventually reject. For her to do that, she had to train harder to become strong enough to fit another role than the one given to her.

She had chosen this path, and she regretted neither the scars on her body nor the wounds on her heart that came from it.)

“Ah, open space,” Izuna drawled once they had exited from the cave. “The air here is so refreshing.” 

“Does it actually kill you to be quiet for more than a few minutes?” Touka asked, genuinely curious.

“You’re so terribly mean to me,” Izuna said, pout so exaggerated that Touka could hear it in his voice. Beside her ear, Hikaku huffed out a laugh.

Touka resisted the urge to stare. She could not understand how he could laugh. He had explained that he held on tightly to his role as the living embodiment of the Uchiha clan, but that explanation didn’t seem enough to cover how he seemed so stable and sane after nearly two entire _months_ living in a cave with his legs cut off and isolated from the world.

The Senju knew the Uchiha to be emotional beings, all of them inching closer to the precipice of madness with every breath they took. The Senju had prided themselves as more rational and logical from their generations-long enemies, and had always believed that they would eventually triumph over the Uchiha because the latter would eventually fall into the raging insanity that came with the Sharingan.

Yet Hikaku was here, breathing steadily against her cheek, and Touka doubted that even Tobirama would be able to be so unaffected after going through so much. No, she _knew_ that as a fact; she had witnessed enough of her cousins’ childhood to know that there were broken pieces within Hashirama that his smiles hid, and there were shattered parts of Tobirama that would never heal. She knew, too, that not even Mito had survived Touka’s uncle entirely intact.

(Hashirama was a fool if he thought that Touka didn’t know what he had planned for the Senju. She had never said a thing because she didn’t _care_: if the entire compound was set alight by Uchiha flames, Touka would risk death for three people, and three alone.

Perhaps that made her more Uchiha than Senju. Then again, what did she know of the Uchiha?)

“Do you think mokuton made this forest, Touka-san?” Hikaku asked.

The sound of his voice was so sudden that Touka nearly tripped, hands tightening on his thighs by instinct so she didn’t jar him. He was surely in enough pain already without her having to add to it. “Huh?” she said intelligently.

“There’s something strange and unnatural about this place,” Hikaku said, sounding contemplative. “Despite the deep cover the trees provide, I haven’t heard a single animal around here. The only plants I know of which animals avoid are those grown by mokuton.”

Frowning, Touka searched her memories. “I haven’t read anything about the Senju coming this far north,” she said slowly. “Then again, I’m not exactly an expert on the clan’s history.”

“That’s alright,” Hikaku said. “It’s just a minor curiosity.”

“Am I allowed to ask you something about your clan?” Touka took the chance she had been given. “Since you asked about mine.”

“Technically, I asked about your clan’s kekkai genkai,” Hikaku pointed out. “But I suppose it’s the same thing, so go ahead. I do not promise to answer.”

“You said that it’s your role as record-keeper that kept you alive,” Touka said, pulling out every skill she had learned from Mito to phrase the question delicately. “But that doesn’t explain how you’re so…”

“Sane?” Hikaku was _definitely_ close to laughter. 

“Something like that.”

“I’m not sure how to explain, Touka-san,” Hikaku said, so quickly that she knew that he was deliberately not answering her question. She wasn’t entirely surprised – clans had a long habit of guarding their secrets closely, and building a village together wouldn’t have the power to erase that— 

“Am I,” Izuna piped up, interrupting her mid-thought, “allowed to contribute?”

“Well,” Hikaku started. Silence stretched before he sighed. “I suppose so, Izuna-sama.”

“You worry too much,” Izuna told him. Then, letting out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, he said, “There isn’t just one record-keeper in the clan; there’s a whole group of them, and Hikaku is the best and thus the leader.” Touka blinked; hah, the Uchiha granted leadership based on ability? That was… surprising. That made sense and didn’t at the same time. 

“Record-keepers,” Izuna continued, unaware of Touka’s meandering thoughts, “don’t only keep the clan’s history alive by storing stories, but also serve as our guides.”

“Guides?” Touka asked.

“Learn from the mistakes of history, lest you repeat them,” Izuna quoted. “Hikaku guides us for that, and also…” He hesitated for a moment. “Okay, how much do you already know about the Sharingan?”

“When it’s on, an Uchiha remembers everything,” Touka recited, and mentally finished the sentence, _so never use your best jutsu against them unless you know you can kill them with it._ “You use it for genjutsu,” _never meet an Uchiha’s eyes, _“and you can possibly see chakra coils when it’s on.” She paused. “I’ve heard rumours of it driving you mad, too, but I’m not sure how a pair of eyes, no matter how special, can do that.” 

Izuna burst out laughing, the sound loud enough to scare birds from trees if there were birds in the first place. Hikaku’s chuckles were softer and punctuated by warm breaths against her neck. The combined sounds of their mirth were nearly enough to make Touka smile. 

“Record-keepers are the best Sharingan users in terms of copying and memory,” Izuna said, “and they guide us with that.”

Humming under her breath to show that she had heard him, Touka turned his words over in her head. He had said a lot, but… “None of that actually answers my question.”

“Just take it as an Uchiha thing and leave it at that,” Izuna said. His tone was flippant, but Touka had travelled and spoken with him for too long to be fooled. She narrowed her eyes. 

“Answer it directly,” she demanded. “Even if it’s not a complete answer, give me something concrete, at least.” She resisted the urge to roll her eyes when Hikaku’s hair tickled her neck, a clear sign that he was exchanging a glance with Izuna.

“The creature might not have intended it,” Hikaku said finally, “but it chose the only Uchiha who could have survived its treatment entirely intact.” He paused. “I cannot tell you more, Touka-san.”

Though that was more than she had expected, and far more than what she had given in return, Touka had to resist the urge to demand that they hand over their secrets. The Senju, and Touka herself, had given something even more precious than their clan’s workings, after all: they had given Tobirama to the Uchiha, and wasn’t that of great enough value that the Senju – _any _Senju – could demand whatever they wanted from the Uchiha?

She knew better than to believe that. 

Biting back a sigh, she said, “If that’s the best I can get, I’ll take it.”

“My apologies, Touka-san,” Hikaku said.

“You have more sincerity in one apology than all of Izuna’s put together,” she commented.

“Why,” Izuna said, and from his tone she knew that he had his hands spread out and staring at the sky, “am I constantly getting attacked?”

“Perhaps you should consider the notion that you deserve it,” Hikaku suggested. “Izuna-sama.”

In reply, Izuna heaved a deep sigh. “I miss the days when you were tiny and worshipped me,” he said mournfully.

“That never happened,” Hikaku protested.

Rolling her eyes, Touka left the two of them to their bickering, turning her attention to the path ahead. There was still a bit of a walk until they were out of the forest, but she could already see the place where the tree cover started to thin enough for the sunlight to break through. If they kept going southwest, they would reach the mountain that Izuna and her had camped at last night before nightfall. From there would be three days’ journey on foot back to the village. Five days or even an entire week, now, she corrected, because now she would be walking with Hikaku on her back, and maybe more if they decided to make detours to the small villages along the way to try to get more information on the creature’s whereabouts, since it wasn’t at the cave.

There was no real rush to head back today, however, and Touka didn’t want to risk Hikaku’s health by heading up a mountain when he had just escaped from the cave. There wasn’t much forest there, either, and whatever of it existed had strange spots with snapped trunks, as if something gigantic and heavy like Madara’s Susano’o had stepped on it. Touka wasn’t going to risk going there and stumbling upon that thing with Hikaku like this. 

“Where are you going?” Izuna demanded.

“River,” Touka answered, already walking southeast. “I saw a few springs on our way here, and they were all headed in this direction.” She pointed. “If we walk a little further, we’ll be able to find a water source.”

“Oh,” Hikaku said. “Fresh water would be good.”

“There’d likely be some fish, too,” Touka continued, shifting him a little further up her back because he was starting to slip down. “I’ll forage for some roots and berries in the area while Izuna cooks.”

“Why am I the one to cook?” Izuna whined.

“Because you’re the one who actually remembered bringing salt and spices from Uzushio, while I probably would just swallow the entire fish raw if I can make sure that the bones won’t pierce open my throat or stomach,” Touka reminded him, dry. “Or would you rather be the one looking around the forest instead, and bring back a whole batch of poisonous mushrooms like you did the last time?”

“That was an accident!” Izuna cried. “It’s not my fault that the tsukiyotake and the anzutake look almost exactly alike!”

“Izuna-sama,” Hikaku said, sounding mystified. “I know you take solo missions. How did you survive if you can’t even recognise tsukiyotake by sight?”

“I’m very good at finding villages and towns and convincing people to give me a bed and food for free,” Izuna said, shrug clear in his tone. “It’s _much_ better than living in the wild.”

“He actually is,” Touka said, reluctantly admiring.

“Most of the time I ask Touka to shove herself somewhere out of sight while I go into town, and then I’ll pick her out once I found somewhere for us to stay,” Izuna laughed. “The one time I brought her in with me, she ended up scaring so many people with her face that we ended up being chased out.”

Touka grunted; there was nothing she could say in her defence, because Izuna was telling the truth.

“Are you sure it’s because of her expression instead of the fact that the two of you are a man and a woman travelling together?” Hikaku asked.

Throwing his head back, Izuna laughed. At that very moment, he stepped out of the shadows of the unnatural forest, and the sunlight shone upon his pale skin and bright eyes. Touka swallowed, looking away. 

They might not be rushing towards finding Hikaku or hunting that creature now, but there was never an appropriate time for her to look at Izuna the way she did.

“I generally don’t look like a woman when we go into a town,” she answered Hikaku. Easier to focus on that than to pay any attention to the growing ache in her chest.

“We generally pretend to be brothers,” Izuna said. “I’m the younger one, of course.”

For some reason, Hikaku burst out laughing, loud and hard enough that she could feel it rumbling in his chest. After a few moments, he started to cough. Touka slowed down, trying to give him time to gather himself, but he didn’t stop, and, after a few more moments, started to gasp.

Exchanging a glance with Izuna, Touka nodded. She settled Hikaku’s arms tight around her shoulders with one hand before gripping his thighs with both. Then, as his coughing worsened, she started to run.

Izuna had always been faster, so he pulled ahead, taking point to seek for any source of water that might be closer to them than the river. His feet kicked up dust from the dry soil behind them, and Touka wove around him until she was behind him, holding tight to Hikaku and trying her best to not fret over the _other_ effects that the long captivity might have had on his body. She really should have asked if he had enough food, or water, but their priority had been to get him out of there, away from the creature who might be returning, and now…

She didn’t want to think about how Izuna would feel if they rescued his clansman only to have him die on their watch. She didn’t want to think how terrible it would be for Hikaku to have held on for so long only to fade away after he had been rescued.

“Here!” Izuna shouted.

Nodding, Touka pushed herself harder. There had been residual aches throughout her body for weeks and her muscles screamed from the sudden exertion, but she was a kunoichi of the battlefield, and she refused to give in. There was no Hashirama to carry her, no Mito to feed her chakra, no Tobirama and his soothing cool-water chakra to ease her aches. Only Izuna and Hikaku, and it was up to her to ensure that they arrived back at the village safe and alive instead of the other way around.

“Come on,” Izuna said. He had stopped next to what looked like a little brook. One glance to check that the water was clear, another to ensure that its source did not run through that horrible forest, and Touka half-folded, half-fell onto her knees. 

Hikaku’s coughs had calmed somewhat during the run, but his chest still heaved, and every breath sounded like it scraped over a raw throat. As Touka settled him from her back to beside him, Izuna cupped his hands into the spring and swallowed the first gulp of water himself. When he nodded to her, Touka tossed him the sealing scroll with the waterskins and bowls that she kept in her thigh pouch before moving behind Hikaku, wrapping her arms around him to pull him into her lap—

What the _hell _was Izuna doing? Was he _kissing_ him? How could that be appropriate in any—

No, he wasn’t kissing him. Looking closer, she realised that there was an inch between their lips, and Izuna had hold of Hikaku’s chin, tipping his head back as he dribbled water from his own mouth down to his clansman’s.

She supposed that could be a good way to control the flow of water into Hikaku’s mouth and down his throat, but it was the most unorthodox method she had ever seen. Was this another one of those Uchiha things?

Still, it seemed to work: Hikaku’s breathing slowly evened out, and his eyes had fallen shut. Touka tried to rub at his shoulders to ease him, biting her lip as he sagged further against her, practically leaning his entire weight upon her.

“Better?” Izuna asked. His fingers found the edge of Hikaku’s hairline, carding through the matted strands.

Without opening his eyes, Hikaku nodded. Izuna looked at him for a moment before he turned back to the brook and gulped another mouthful of water. This time, Touka helped him keep Hikaku’s head steady as he fed more of it to him.

After another few rounds, Hikaku started to try to sit up. Touka helped to shift him until he was lying on his side on the grass. His breathing was still a little too fast, so she left Izuna to make him more comfortable while she picked up the scroll on the ground. Breaking the seal, she shook out the empty waterskins and refilled them.

Another glance – Izuna had Hikaku’s head on his lap now, stroking over his hair and neck – before she left the skins beside them. Then, heading upstream, she kicked off her sandals and stepped into the water. A few minutes of keeping entirely still – and snatching some meditation time as well – had a couple of fishes daring to swim close. She grabbed them with her bare hands and tossed them to the bank, far enough that their flopping wouldn’t end up with her losing their meal, before she fell back into stillness.

She returned to Izuna and Hikaku with five fishes held by their tails in one hand and a small bundle of dark brown, wild enokitake in the other. When Izuna shook his head, she set down the ingredients beside him, and went to gather wood for the fire. 

When Hikaku next moved, the fish had been scaled, beheaded, and gutted, and two small fires had been set up with one pot boiling with the cleaned mushrooms and fish heads in it. She had just finished setting up the spitting posts to grill the food when Hikaku reached out. His fingers brushed over her wrists, questioning, and when she nodded, he took one fish and pierced it with the sharpened stick she had set to the side of that very purpose.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“No need,” she said shortly. “Are you better?”

“It’ll be a slow journey back to the village, Touka-san,” Hikaku said. He handed her the spitted fish. “I apologise.”

“We’ve run out of rice, and I can’t always find mushrooms,” she waved at the pot, “so we’ll have to stop by a village for supplies soon. You can write to your brother about the delay then, Izuna, so he won’t worry.”

“Am I allowed to bring up the fact that you never write?” Izuna asked, voice light.

“You already do, so what’s the point in me repeating what you said?” Touka shrugged. She finished spitting the fish and set them on top of the posts to be cooked. 

Izuna opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Hikaku cleared his throat. He blinked at the waterskin that Touka thrust towards him, and shook his head.

“My throat feels better after some water,” he said. “It’s not that, it’s—”

“Did you have enough to eat while you were in there?” She demanded, cutting him off. “Enough food?”

“Water was available, though it was mostly stale,” Hikaku nodded. “Please don’t worry about me.” Something must be on her face, because he laughed quietly, shaking his head. “There were rations, but they ran out four days ago.”

Which meant that he hadn’t had fresh water or proper food for _months_. Swallowing, Touka glanced at the pot. It would take some time to boil, but it should be plain enough for Hikaku’s stomach to take. They would need to add some pieces of fish as well once they were cooked.

“More importantly,” Hikaku said, pulling her attention back to him, “I have some information about the creature’s intentions and its nature.”

Touka straightened despite herself. On Hikaku’s other side, Izuna did the same.

“What is it?” Izuna asked immediately. “Wait, would you rather eat first, or?”

“No,” Hikaku shook his head. “I had delayed this long enough.” He hesitated, gaze darting between the direction of the cave and then upwards, before he closed his eyes.

He didn’t need to say more for Touka to understand: Hikaku had wanted to not only be out of the cave, but into the sunlight, before he could speak about the creature; about the _thing_ that was responsible for his current state. Carefully, she reached out and brushed her hand over his shoulder, stifling her gasp when he grabbed onto it with his own hand, squeezing tight enough that she felt her bones protest.

But she didn’t pull away.

Izuna shifted himself closer. His chin hooked over one of Hikaku’s shoulders as he wrapped his arms loosely around his waist. Hikaku let out a long, low breath.

“The creature,” he started, eyes closed and obviously focusing on their skin on his, “might not be a single entity. It might be a group of them. I’m not entirely sure, but I saw it… split.” A crease appeared between his brows. “I’m not sure how to describe it in words, but… I witnessed a white line appear in the centre of its body, and then the two halves part before growing to become two separate wholes.” Touka’s eyes went wide; that image was _horrifying_. To think that there was something out there that could do that…

“Well,” Izuna said, “that explains why the trail keeps going haywire at places.”

Now that he mentioned it… That made far too much sense. They had followed the original trail to the border between the Land of Water and the Land of Lightning before another one had suddenly appeared, trailing back to the Land of Fire and then northwards to here, the Mountains’ Graveyard.

Touka remembered the very long argument she had had with Izuna about which was the false trail, and they had finally decided to come here because it was within their own country. Which meant that any threat against the village was greater from here than from the Land of Lightning.

Neither of the trails was false, she knew now. But how could they have expected that the creature could literally _split itself_?

“I do not know its ultimate goal,” Hikaku continued, dragging her out of her thoughts. “But I knew that it wanted to use my Sharingan against the village, and,” he hesitated, “I was not his first choice, or even his second.”

“It was coming after me, wasn’t he?” Izuna asked.

“Not entirely,” Hikaku shook his head. “The target it favoured is…” he took a deep, bracing breath. “I do not want to say it, Izuna-sama. Please tell me that you have already guessed.”

“Nii-san,” Izuna said. He turned his head, practically hiding his face in Hikaku’s neck. “It wants Nii-san.”

Slowly, Hikaku nodded. “I do not know why,” he murmured. “But it muttered a great deal about its plans being destroyed, about finding—” he swallowed hard, “our clan head perfect for its plans, and that everything had moved too quickly and he wanted to stop it. He…” The hand clenching onto Touka’s wrist trembled, and Touka laid her other hand on top of it, trying to soothe.

“It wants besshitsu-san dead,” Hikaku said. “It wants the village destroyed. It wants war between the clans. And from what I have managed to gather, it wants all three because it wanted to— it wanted—”

“Shh,” Izuna slid a hand over his hair. “I’ll finish it for you.” When Hikaku nodded, Izuna straightened his shoulders. “If Tobirama dies and the village is destroyed and the peace that we’re so close to is suddenly gone… Nii-san will break.”

“Yes.”

“It is planning all of this to shatter Nii-san’s mind.”

“Yes.” Hikaku’s voice shook so much that the word was barely recognisable.

“And _why_ does it want Nii-san to go mad?” Izuna sounded so calm, dangerous in a way Touka had never heard from him.

“I do not know,” Hikaku whispered. “I do not— Izuna-sama, I cannot—” His free hand grabbed onto Izuna’s sleeve, dragging him even closer. “He— Your brother is—” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “It cannot happen. It _cannot_.”

Was he scared of what Madara was capable of if he lost his sanity? The Mangekyou’s capabilities were the stuff of Senju nightmares, after all, and Madara had the strongest in the clan; the strongest that the Uchiha had seen in generation. 

No, Touka realised; that wasn’t it. Hikaku had refused to say Madara’s name, and when Izuna had used his usual _Nii-san_ to address him, Hikaku had latched onto it.

_Our clan head_, Hikaku had said. _Your brother_. If he had clung onto his role as the records-keeper of the clan to keep himself sane, then… then the mentions of Madara’s positions within that same clan would be part of the same mantra. A prayer, Touka guessed, that Madara would remember his role, and keep his mind in the same way.

Hikaku wasn’t afraid _of_ Madara at all. He was scared _for_ him, so absolutely terrified that he was trembling so hard that he could barely speak. 

Gods above, Touka laughed silently to herself, grim and hysterical all at once. She was learning to speak Uchiha. 

“I apologise,” Hikaku whispered. “I tried to get the creature to tell me more of its plans for our clan head, because if I knew and managed to reach you, then there is a greater chance that we can stop it, but it refused to tell me more but I should have tried harder, I should have—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Touka heard herself say.

Hikaku’s eyes snapped open, fixing on her. She met the Sharingan unflinchingly and squeezed his wrist lightly. “You have done a great deal by telling us that it is aiming for Madara already, so we will stop it. I will throw everything I have into protecting him from it. I swear it.”

She meant those words, she realised. She _would_ do everything she could to stop Madara from slipping into madness.

It had nothing to do with the creature’s plans. She would stop it from killing Tobirama, of course, but that needn’t be said. It had nothing to do with her feelings for Madara, either; he might be somewhat decent as a man, but that was all she thought of him.

No, this newfound determination was inspired entirely by Hikaku. How could she not swear to protect Madara when Hikaku had remained entirely calm about the suffering he had endured, and yet threatened to fall into pieces when speaking about the danger his clan head was in? How could she not do everything she could to protect Madara when Madara could inspire such loyalty in a man like _this_?

“Never did I think I would see a day,” Izuna said, his shoulders shaking, “when a Senju swears to protect the Uchiha clan head.”

Turning, Touka met Izuna’s whirling Sharingan. “I was born a shield for the Senju,” she said, voice remarkably steady even to her own ears, “and I have made myself into a spear. Now, both shield and spear will be used for the sake of the Uchiha clan head.” Squaring her shoulders, she gave first Izuna, then Hikaku, a wry smile.

“Because you two bastard Uchiha gave me no other choice than to do so,” she said. “Not if I am to remain who and what I am.”

“Touka-san,” Hikaku breathed. “You are…”

She waved off the rest of his words, because she knew it would be some sort of praise and she had never been the sort to accept those with ease. “What are the rest of its plans that you have heard?” she asked, changing the subject unsubtly.

Blinking, Hikaku’s eyes shifted back to black. “I know that it plans to attack the village,” he said hesitantly, “though I do not know how and when. And…” he let out a long breath. “I do not know if this is useful, but it mentioned a place named ‘Yamagakure’ several times.”

Izuna started, his eyes sliding from Hikaku to meet Touka’s. Touka knew that her own face mirrored his surprise.

They had heard that name before. Whispered in passing in the capital of the Land of Lightning, and just as suddenly shushed. A place among the tallest mountains of the country, rumoured to be a gathering place for several specific clans.

A shinobi village much like the one that they were trying to build. 

“Shit,” Izuna swore. “I thought we had more time before we had to deal with _that_.”

“You know what it is?” Hikaku asked.

“A potential enemy,” Touka explained shortly. She turned to Izuna. “You take Hikaku back to the village, and I will—”

“No,” Izuna said. His eyes narrowed. “_You _take Hikaku back to the village, and _I _will head to the Land of Lightning to find this ‘Yamagakure’ and hunt the creature down.”

“What,” Touka said flatly.

“Listen, you can get back to the village without passing through a single town or village, but not vice versa,” Izuna started, shifting his arms around Hikaku so that he could tick off his fingers, “which means that your skills in the wilderness is more useful than mine in towns. Plus, you’re stronger, which means you can carry Hikaku all the way back.”

“I am very glad to be talked about like a piece of baggage to be transported,” Hikaku said, voice dry.

Stroking a line from the base of his palm down to his wrist, Touka shot him a smile before turning back to Izuna. “That doesn’t explain—”

“We have no idea where this ‘Yamagakure’ place is,” Izuna talked over her, “and hunting around the wilderness in the general vicinity will take forever. Which means that the only way to find it is to ask people for it. And you know that I’m better at that.”

“That—” Touka opened her mouth. Closed it. “You would trust me with your clansman? Alone? For _weeks_?”

“I trust you enough to sleep while you guard my back,” Izuna said, tipping his chin up. “And there is one thing about the Sharingan you don’t know, Touka.”

“What?”

“It sees through lies and half-truths,” he said, a smile tugging at the sides of his lips. “When you swore to protect Nii-san for the two of us, I know exactly what you mean.”

“Thank you, Touka-san,” Hikaku said. When Touka whirled to face him, she found that he was smiling as well. “For swearing to protect not only our clan head, but Izuna-sama and myself as well.”

Staring at the two of them, Touka’s fingers twitched. Then she jerked her head away and yanked one of the spits from the ground, checking the fish to see if it was cooked. It still needed a few more minutes, so she thrust it in the direction of the fire.

“Fine,” Touka said. “I’ll bring Hikaku back.”

“Wow,” Izuna said, sounding like he was barely stopping himself from cackling. “I have _never_ met anyone is as bad at receiving compliments as you.”

“I will shove this fucking fish down your throat whole,” Touka threatened, shaking it at him.

Izuna threw his head back and gave into his laughter, loud cackles echoing around the clearing surrounding the brook. Beside him, Hikaku leaned harder against Izuna, shoulders shaking and eyes creasing into half-moons as chuckles escaped him. His hand was still gripping onto hers, and his skin was very warm.

What the hell had the past year done to her, Touka thought, shaking her head as she set the spit back into the ground so she wouldn’t watch them. Not only did she travel with one Uchiha and rescue another, but she was sitting here, listening to them laugh _at _her, and…

The sun was very warm, especially after the cold darkness of the forest.

That was all. 

“How,” the inkstone jumped up and clattered back down on the mokuton-made table, “how the flying _fuck_,” as Madara slammed a thick sheaf of papers down on it, “does making _one_ water system – not even the village, mind, just the fucking water system – create so many problems?”

“Well,” Hashirama started, nudging the inkstone away from the edge, “we’re not just planning for right now, but also the possibility—”

“One afternoon!” Madara snarled, ignoring Hashirama entirely. “It took Tobirama _one afternoon_ to make up the plans for the water system in my compound, and a week to lay the pipes! It shouldn’t be more complicated than that!”

“Your compound currently has only four pipes, and this is a lot more,” Hashirama tried again, hands flapping by his sides. “Look, the Senju compound has a system much like this one, and it took years to make—” He stopped abruptly, turning to blink at Mito.

“Uchiha-sama,” Mito said, stifling a laugh as Madara turned towards her. No matter how amusing it was to watch Madara throw a fit – especially when her husband tried futilely to calm him – she knew from the previous times he did that he would start threatening to set fire to everything soon, and the administrative building of the village was _still_ a cottage made entirely of wood.

“The system is complex because the river is much further from the village, hence requiring several pumps to move the water to us,” she waved towards the papers. “We had to take into account that the various sectors have different requirements, and the village is far bigger than both of our compounds put together.” She paused. “Not to mention that the soil conditions are very different here.”

“We just need to wait for Tobirama to come back,” Hashirama burst out. “He’ll fix everything.”

Snapping his mouth shut from any reply he was going to make to her, Madara whirled to face Hashirama. “That,” he jabbed a finger between Hashirama’s brows, making her husband go cross-eyed to try to stare at it, “is exactly the problem.”

“Huh?”

Mito had to concur.

“Tobirama has a lot to do when he comes back already,” Madara said, dragging a hand through his already-messy hair. “We’re depending on him to figure out the philosophy of the clan, the structure of the school,” he waved in the general direction of the scaffolded building, “not to mention its curriculum and syllabus, and now the water system. We might as well call it ‘Tobirama Village’ at this rate, because he’s going to do everything.”

“But Tobirama _likes _working!” Hashirama protested. “Though, that’s actually a nice name—”

Mito slapped her hand over her husband’s mouth. “He will never agree,” she said, giving him a smile that he knew from experience that she was commanding him to _shut up_ for a moment. When Hashirama nodded, she turned back to Madara. “Uchiha-sama, please have a little more patience. Tobirama will be returning tomorrow, and you will know if he is well by then.”

Digging _both_ hands into his hair now, Madara squeezed his eyes shut and let out a long, low sigh. “I told him to write to me, and he did write to me, but I _still_ don’t know if he’s actually healthy. I just know that he’s _working_.”

“His letters tend to be like that,” Mito agreed peaceably.

“I keep asking him if he ate, and he would write a paragraph of the food he received from the Uzumaki that day, and that was _it_. It’s almost as if he’s purposefully avoiding answering my questions, and I don’t want to think that because it means that he’s _not_ taking care of himself. There’s no point in me haring off to Uzushio just to check on him, and I know he doesn’t want me to do that because that’s the _only_ consistent thing that he says in his letters, and—”

It was truly difficult for Mito to not burst out laughing, both at Madara’s clear frustration and Hashirama’s slowly-widening eyes. She lowered her hand.

“Wow, Madara,” Hashirama breathed. “I never knew you are this much of a fussy nag.”

“Shut up before I burn your hair off,” Madara snapped. When Hashirama reared back, a hand on his chest and face pulled into an expression of exaggerated hurt, he rolled his eyes.

“You should be getting his letters soon,” Mito said. “Perhaps he would have said a little more—” 

A sudden _bang_ echoed throughout the room.

Hashirama got to his feet so quickly that his chair toppled backwards, clattering loudly onto the floor. Mito already had her usual arsenal of offensive seals at the back of her mind even as her fingers closed around the sharp-tipped fan she kept in her sleeve. Beside her, Madara’s chakra burnt with heavy and corrosive fire as his eyes shifted into black pinwheels ringed by red.

The three of them exhaled, long and low, when they realised exactly who the intruders were.

“Letters from Tobirama?” Madara was the first to gather himself enough to speak. 

“Urgent messages,” Mifuyu, the senior and bigger of Tobirama’s favourite summons said. Beside her, Kazuyuki – the height of a ceiling-to-floor bookshelf when on his hindlegs – spat out a metal scroll onto the floor, picked it up with his teeth, and tossed it towards Madara. Madara caught it, not seeming to even notice the saliva all over the thing, before throwing it backwards to Hashirama.

“Something went wrong,” Madara said, stepping forward. “He,” he nodded towards Kazuyuki, and Mito remembered belatedly that Madara did not know the names of Tobirama’s summons, “had a message, but you don’t.”

“Uh, Madara,” Hashirama said, clearly having unrolled the scroll. “Tobirama says that he overheard envoys from the Land of Lightning talking about building a shinobi village. That’s… that’s bad news.”

“Where,” Madara said, eyes narrowing as they flicked from Kazuyuki to Mifuyu and back, “is Tobirama?”

“Those envoys from the Land of Lightning took him,” Mifuyu said. 

Madara froze. “They… what?”

“Are you deaf, unworthy husband of my summoner?” Kazuyuki snapped out. “They _took _our summoner. They knew about the markings he had made with his Hiraishin, waited for him at the very first stop outside Uzushio, and ambushed him there.” 

Mifuyu’s lips drew back, baring gleaming fangs at Madara at she picked up the thread from her fellow snow leopard, “He could not fight them off, and he sent me off to bring news to _you_.”

Her great head tipped up, ice blue eyes meeting Madara’s Mangekyou squarely. “I saw them. I heard them. Yamagakure.” Her ears flicked towards the letter in Hashirama’s hand. “The name of the village.”

A long, low hiss rang out in the room. Madara’s chakra spiked heavily, the corrosive darkness nearly thick enough to choke. “Hashirama, I leave the village—”

“No,” Hashirama said. “I’m coming with you.” Tobirama’s last message crumpled as he clenched his hand into a fist. “I chose this village over my little brother once. I will not do it again.”

“Leave the village to me,” Mito said. “I will guard it.” She looked from her husband to that of her little brother. “Find Tobirama. Bring him home.”

“Mito—” Hashirama started.

“There are three sealing scrolls in the wardrobe of our bedroom,” Mito said, eyes still fixed on Madara even as she spoke to her husband. “They contain changes of clothes, rations, soldier pills, water filtering packs… everything you might need for a mission. Two of them have enough to last you a week each, and the last is for a month. I trust you to know which to pick.”

Arms flung around her shoulders. Lips pressed into her hair. “I will go through all of the horrors I have endured in my life as many times as I must,” Hashirama whispered, voice low enough to only be picked up by her ears, “if that means I will have you by my side. Thank you, Mito.”

Lifting her hand, she squeezed his forearm lightly. “He calls me _Aneue_, husband, and I do not take that lightly.”

“Our little brother will come home,” Hashirama promised. Then he tore himself away, already running out of the door. The hinges, she noted mildly, had broken off from the leopards’ entrance.

“Yukihyou-sama,” she turned to the leopards still waiting for them, Mifuyu still and alert while and Kazuyuki paced in circles. “Please wait for Hashirama and Uchiha-sama at the village’s gates. They will come.”

“Fox summoner,” Mifuyu cocked her head to the side, “we will do as you say only because we understand our summoner’s respect for you.”

“I am grateful and honoured,” Mito replied, bending her knees slightly. She stayed where she was, head bowed, until both of them had walked out of the room.

“You wanted to talk to me,” Madara said the moment they were alone.

“Yes,” Mito said. Straightening, she crossed the two steps that would bring her right to his face. She tipped her head up, meeting his Mangekyou squarely. “Uchiha-sama—” No, that was not appropriate. Not for this.

“Madara.” 

His eyes were wide, chin jerking down. 

Now that she had his full attention, Mito continued, “There are two men I hold dearest in my life. I leave them in your hands.”

“Hashirama will be—”

“He will _not_ be fine!” she nearly snarled. Then, gulping down a breath, she shoved the thread of panic that had threatened ever since Hashirama had declared his intentions to search for Tobirama into the tiny box deep inside where she kept all of her inconvenient emotions. “Listen, Madara, you do not know where Yamagakure is. None of us do. Even if we do, there is no telling from here where they have kept Tobirama, and they have likely kept him in a place that suppresses his chakra.” Another breath. She dug her nails into her palms. 

_Calm_.

“The only way to find him,” she continued, voice barely wavering, “the reason why Hashirama _must_ come with you, is to ask the trees and the wood.”

“I know he can do that,” Madara said, frowning now. “But I don’t see—”

“When Hashirama talks to trees,” Mito interrupted ruthlessly, “he gets closer to becoming one. When he talks to wood, the threat is even worse.” Madara’s eyes went very wide, red fading away into true black.

“Please,” Mito squeezed her own eyes shut so she wouldn’t give into the urge to scream her next words, “promise me that you will bring Hashirama home, too.”

There was a sudden clatter. Mito kept her eyes close, taking deep, calming breath. 

(The first time Hashirama had told her about the dangers of mokuton, he had been smiling. He had held her hands in hers, fourteen-and-a-half and nearly half a head shorter than her, that he had a plan to make peace possible, but there was a risk he must take; one that he needed her help with. 

They had been sitting in a tree then, Hashirama’s legs swinging as he laid out his plans for making the spores that his father would breathe in every spring grow into ferns that would eventually choke him to death. And Hashirama’s shoulders had bumped against her when he laughed and told her that, when he sank that deeply into the workings of a plant, he ran into the danger of becoming one.

His arm on her shoulders was very warm as he whispered to her what the trees and vines and even the fungi told him, and she felt the cold spread from his bones. His colour never changed, but those warm eyes she had already learned to love started to turn cold and flat, resembling more bark than man.

That day, she kissed him for the first time. When his hand sank into her hair, he grew warm again, and his smile no longer echoed emptily, but shone through his eyes. 

She had never said the words, but Hashirama knew: that kiss was a promise. No matter what he had to do, no matter the depths he had to sink to in order to change this broken, rotting world, she would ease the burdens from his hands and keep him human.

Mito never broke her promises.)

“Here,” Madara said.

When Mito opened her eyes, blinking away the memories, she saw a piece of paper being held to her, the unique pinwheels of Madara’s Mangekyou drawn on it. When she took it from him, the paper was hot to the touch: it was embedded with his chakra, and with enough to last for weeks, if not months.

“Give this to Tsurugi,” Madara said. Mito’s confusion clearly showed on her face, because he sighed. “With Hikaku and Izuna _and _me gone, the Uchiha clan has no shinobi representative adequately trained for the job. This,” he tapped a corner of the paper with a fingertip, “gives you the authority to act in my place.”

Mito stared.

“You left your husband and your brother to me,” Madara said, crossing his arms and looking, of all things, embarrassed. “I leave my clan to you.”

“That—” He voice _cracked_. She swallowed. “That is not an equal trade.”

“Bullshit,” Madara snorted. “I know what you hold dear, Uzumaki Mito, and how tightly you cling onto them.” Then, before she could say a word, he swept towards the door. “Izuna should be writing soon. I leave you to reply to him, and if he returns before I do…” 

“I will care for him,” Mito said, forcing the words from the lump in her throat. “Like I would for my own brother.”

Looking at her over his shoulder, Madara smiled. “Like I said, an equal trade.” He lifted a hand. “I’ll see you, Mito. And I will have Hashirama and Tobirama with me.”

“And I will have your clan safe, and your brother protected if he has returned,” Mito replied, pressing Madara’s letter of authority against her chest.

“Of that, I have no doubts,” Madara said, and took a step across the threshold. 

“Wait,” Mito said. When Madara went still, she rushed out, “The larger leopard’s name is Mifuyu, and the smaller is Kazuyuki. They will not be pleased that you know their names, but you have more than earned them; they simply have not seen it yet.”

“You just saved me from calling them ‘Leopard One’ and ‘Leopard Two’ in my head,” Madara said, dry. Then he shook his head. “Is there anything else? I have to actually pack, because unlike Hashirama, I don’t have anyone to do it for me.”

Closing her eyes, Mito bowed low enough until her back was parallel to the floor. She kept the paper warmed by Madara’s chakra pressed over her heart. “Thank you, Madara.”

“Thank me only when I bring them home,” Madara said. Then there was a quiet _whoosh_ of rushing air, and he was gone in a shunshin.

Mito raised her head, staring at the spot where he had stood. Then her eyes shifted down to the paper in her hand.

A clan for a husband and a brother. Had she really been that transparent, or was Madara truly that sharp with his observations? Whichever one it was didn’t matter, for Mito would keep her word.

She would personally crush every Senju’s objection under her foot if it meant bringing the Uchiha up to the same level of importance and supremacy in the village. She would do that for a man who once had looked upon her and seen only a woman who shouldn’t even appear in front of a daimyo, much less speak to him, and now handed her the right to rule over the shinobi of his own clan; she would do it for it an Uchiha whose Sharingan recorded with perfect clarity the wrongs she had done, and yet found it within himself to forgive her.

For Uchiha Madara, who knew all that she was, had done and could do, and had given her freely his respect and trust; Uchiha Madara, who had earned the same from her with all that he was, and everything he had done.

Mito swore that on her Uzumaki name.

(Maybe they didn’t need to wait for Tobirama to come up with a philosophy for the village, after all.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The entire relationship between Hikaku, Touka, and Izuna ambushed me in pretty much the same way as this whole fic had. At this point of writing, I have no idea what’s going on and where it came from.
> 
> Mito and Madara’s relationship is one of the most important in the fic. If the village is a boat, Hashirama is the captain providing the directions, Tobirama is the wind, and Mito and Madara are the sails. (I’ll leave you to guess Touka, Izuna, and Hikaku’s role in this metaphor. :>)


	18. oracle of the gods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings: **Second scene: descriptions of sensory deprivation and implications of torture, as well as explicit mentions of suicide and suicidal ideation that is rationalised in a way that makes a dangerous amount of sense.

They were still several kilometres away from the village when she felt their approach. Mito tilted her head in that direction, a crease appearing between her brows.

“Mito-sama?” 

“A moment please, Tsurugi-san,” Mito murmured, holding up a hand. When he subsided, nodding – she could not help but still be taken aback by his obedience, and even more so that the Uchiha had used ‘Mito-sama’ to address her the moment she showed them the piece of paper with Madara’s Mangekyou drawn on and his chakra embedded in it – she focused back on the faint-familiar signatures she could feel.

There were only two of them, and one was entirely unexpected. Touka was there, of course – Mito would be extremely surprised if Touka hadn’t returned, because the younger woman had always met challenges head-on without faltering, and had grown stronger whenever she met an opponent she should not be able to handle with her current skill level – but the Uchiha whose signature was so close to her that he seemed to be on top of her was not Izuna, like she had predicted and half-hoped.

It was Hikaku.

Part of Mito was glad that he had been found. She had not fretted over him, for she had barely spoken to him and she hoarded her affections too carefully to worry over near-strangers, but his disappearance at this point would be a blow to the Uchiha that might threaten the fragile equilibrium between the two clans. Besides, she knew from Hashirama’s stories that the Uchiha had a strange habit of risking living shinobi to collect the corpses of their dead, and if Hikaku vanished without a body for them to mourn…

Mito had always heard rumours about the mental and emotional instability of the Uchiha. She might not have seen any evidence of such a thing over the past few days, or even the near-year that she had been living within walking distance of the clan, but she was not foolish enough to dismiss them entirely from current lack of evidence, either. 

Closing her eyes, she threw out her senses, sweeping them out as far as she could and specifically searching for Izuna. Perhaps, she thought, he had lingered behind to guard Touka and Hikaku’s backs, which would be a sensible option if Hikaku was so injured that he was using Touka as a crutch or worse. Or the three of them had met a threat on their way back, and Izuna had stayed behind to deal with it after sending Touka and Hikaku ahead to the village for safety and call for backup.

But neither of those options seemed like what Izuna would do. Why would Izuna leave Hikaku in _Touka’s _care, after all, when he could attend to his injured clansman himself? For him to allow her to care of the third most powerful shinobi in the Uchiha’s arsenal, a man whose strength would surely be needed to protect the clan as a whole if they ever thought the Senju to once again be a threat, was… unexpected. Unprecedented. 

Like Madara entrusting her with his clan.

Letting out a breath, Mito dropped her head back. Izuna couldn’t be found anywhere and, worse still, there wasn’t even a single trace she could find of his chakra from jutsu use. It was as if he had parted from Touka and Hikaku days ago.

That was behaviour even further outside of her expectations. And Mito had once thought that Izuna was the Uchiha whom she could predict best, because they were so similar in both their outlooks of the world and roles they performed for their clan. 

Opening her eyes, she focused back on Tsurugi. He was seated patiently in front of her, hands wrapped around the cup of tea she had poured for him when he had first entered the administrative building to give her the reports of the civilian members of the clan’s acceptance of her temporary leadership.

“I have both good news and bad news, Tsurugi-san,” she said, inclining her head slightly. “The good news is that Hikaku-san’s chakra signature has approached the edge of my sensory range; he has been found.”

“Hikaku is safe?” Tsurugi said, the words bursting out of him as if he couldn’t help himself. Beside him, his wife Shiomi’s head finally jerked up from the lowered position it had been in ever since she had settled into her seat. Her eyes were very wide.

“His parents and sisters would be terribly glad to know that he is safe,” Shiomi said. Then, as if remembering that she had never spoken in front of Mito – not to her directly, for she would whisper her comments to her husband, who would then repeat them – she ducked her head back down. “The rest of the clan will be, as well.”

Mito turned, fixing her gaze on the older woman’s forehead as she said, “I am heartened to hear that Hikaku-san is beloved within the Uchiha, and that his return will ease many hearts.”

“Indeed,” Tsurugi said. His fingers uncurled from his cup of tea, splaying on top of the chabudai as he lowered his head. “Will Mito-sama give us the permission to welcome him and Izuna-sama back into the village?”

“That is the bad news, I am afraid,” Mito said, keeping her face turned in Shiomi’s direction even as her eyes flicked towards Tsurugi. “I could not feel Izuna-san’s chakra anywhere. Hikaku-san is currently accompanied by Touka-kun.”

“I see,” Tsurugi nodded. Then he tilted his ear sideways for his wife to whisper into it. “The Uchiha would like to thank the Senju for Touka-sama’s efforts in bringing Hikaku home.”

_Home_. Such a curious word Tsurugi had chosen.

“Are you not worried for Izuna-san’s safety?” Mito arched an eyebrow.

“Izuna-san is part of the main house,” Tsurugi replied, words crisp. He seemed unwilling to elaborate further on what he meant by that, because he was already rocking back on his heels and standing. When Mito’s gaze did not leave him, he bowed low enough that his back was nearly parallel with the floor. “May we be dismissed, Mito-sama?”

“I will accompany you to the gates,” Mito said, standing as well. She caught the flash of _something_ crossing Shiomi’s eyes, and bit back a sharp sigh of frustration. “I wish to welcome Touka-kun, and receive her reports.”

“Of course, Mito-sama,” Tsurugi murmured. He waited until Mito had moved away from the chabudai and started heading for the door before he followed a careful three steps behind her. Shiomi didn’t stand until Mito had reached the door, and neither did she walk beside her husband, trailing another three steps behind him instead.

When Madara had entrusted her with his clan, Mito knew that it was an honour, and also a challenge. Madara might have changed his mind about her, but he was only one man within an entire clan. He might be the clan head, but the Uchiha were similar to the Senju in that they needed their leaders to prove themselves worthy before they would give their unquestioning obedience. 

Tsurugi and Shiomi might not question Madara’s decisions in front of Mito, but they had certainly shown their displeasure that he had chosen _her_ to lead them in his absence. And their objections had been extremely _specific_.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as Shiomi’s fingers peeked out from beneath the sleeves of her tomesode and started to move. Tsurugi kept his head facing forward, but his gaze was fixed upon his wife’s hands.

Mito was almost tempted to laugh. Every move that Shiomi made in front of here was supposed to be an example to Mito herself about how a woman, in an Uchiha’s worldview, should behave. For none of the Uchiha’s objections were entirely about _who_ she was – the wife of the Senju clan head and therefore their matriarch, an Uzumaki Princess by birth – but because of _what_ she was: a woman.

“Forgive this ignorant civilian of the ways of shinobi-sama, Mito-sama,” Tsurugi said, his voice soft yet with enough strength to pull her attention back to him. “How long will it take before Hikaku-san and Touka-san reach the village’s gates?”

Shiomi wasn’t the only one doling out reminders, either: every word Tsurugi said and every action he took was meant to remind Mito that strict stratifications existed between the shinobi and the civilians of the Uchiha. Mito, a woman and therefore meant to be a civilian, had been given the leadership of the Uchiha _shinobi_. And no Uchiha, Mito knew, had ever witnessed her using jutsu, much less step onto a battlefield.

The fact that she had never participated directly in the war between the Senju and Uchiha was a point in her favour, for she had never killed them. Yet at the same time, it was difficult for the Uchiha to see her as _shinobi_, because, to them, shinobi were warriors and jutsu-users. Mito had even heard whispers that the Uchiha became an adult when they could perform a specific clan jutsu.

Did that mean that no civilian was ever considered an adult? Or was the divide between the two branches so great that the civilians had an entirely different set of conditions to fulfil to be acknowledged as an adult? And what of the women of the shinobi branches? Surely if they performed the jutsu, they would be considered adults and therefore allowed into the battlefield or, at the very least, defend their clan compound. Or was ‘adulthood’ for women defined as readiness to become a wife and a mother?

Mito had many questions. But first—

“They are moving slowly,” she replied. Turning, she nodded first to the Senju guards on her left, then the Uchiha guards on her right, before she swept up the hem of her tomesode and started heading up the steps. “They will reach here earliest in another half hour.” She tilted her head, focusing her attention on the moving chakra signatures a little more than a kilometre away. “An hour, perhaps.”

“Touka-san and Hikaku-san are both splendid shinobi,” Tsurugi said slowly, coming to a stop half a metre away from her at the parapets. Behind him, Shiomi stilled as well, both hands resting on top of her obi as her gaze fixed on the floor. “I would expect them to move faster than that.” Tsurugi paused. “Of course, this civilian might be wrong, for he is ignorant.”

“You are not wrong, Tsurugi-san,” Mito said, carefully keeping her eyes forward as if scanning for signs of Touka and Hikaku’s arrival. A dojutsu clan like the Uchiha depended a great deal on sight, and Mito would rather they not be perturbed by just how little she needed her eyes when she was using her chakra sense. “Their current speed means that Hikaku-san is likely injured.” Slowly, she slid her gaze towards first Tsurugi, and then Shiomi, before giving a small bow.

“Will you allow the Senju medics to look over him? After the Uchiha medics have done so, of course.”

Tsurugi kept his eyes on her even as he tipped his head to the side, listening to his wife as she whispered into his ear. “Mito-sama had been chosen by our clan head, Madara-sama, as the representative of the shinobi branch of the Uchiha,” he said, words flowing smoothly from – Mito suspected – his wife’s lips to his own. “We are certain that Mito-sama’s decisions are for the benefit of the Uchiha shinobi.” 

Turning fully to face him, Mito bent her knees with both of her hands folded on top of one hip. “Uzumaki Mito,” she said, “is honoured by the trust shown to her by the Uchiha clan’s civilian representative, and of the clan as a whole. She promises once again that she will not let them down.”

As Shiomi lowered her knees even further, until they nearly touched the floor, Tsurugi bowed again. “The Uchiha obeys Mito-sama’s words and Madara-sama’s edict,” he murmured, “as is our duty.”

How strange, Mito thought. When the building of the village had begun, she had thought that she would meet her match in political manoeuvring either among the heads of the clans who had still not agreed to join the village, or within the shinobi of other countries when the time came for her to have dealings with them. When she had realised that Izuna knew that the Senju was making an effort to keep the Uchiha subordinate, she had thought that he would be her match.

But Izuna, despite all of his skill in politics, did not speak her language of symbols and subtle actions nearly as well. Oh, he could _read _and _understand_ them perfectly well, but he was no match for these two in front of her, who not only spoke that language, but were fluent enough in it to _argue_ with Mito using it. And they were a pair of civilians who, according to the ways of the Uchiha, were supposed to be far lower-ranked than the shinobi within the clan. 

Which meant that, no matter how strong their ability in political manoeuvring, they must always defer to Izuna and even _Madara_, the latter of whom was not _entirely _blind to politics and subtleties but was, at best, an idiot savant who acted correctly according to some sort of mindless instinct and a great helping of luck.

(She liked and respected him perfectly fine. But Mito had never forgotten just how unsubtle she had had to be in order to hammer into Madara’s head that he had to follow _her_ lead in front of the daimyo.) 

This made absolutely no sense to Mito. And even less so that Tsurugi and Shiomi would constantly speak of themselves as inferior to the shinobi, who relied on _them_ to represent their displeasure about Mito’s leadership over them because they had _absolutely no idea_ how to protest to her directly.

Hashirama had told her that he and Madara had agreed that the Uchiha had to change how strictly the roles of the clan members had been defined, and Mito had wondered a few times over the past days if Madara had deliberately chosen her to lead his clan because she was a living example about how roles could restrict and reduce instead of guide, and how, despite the faults of the Senju ways, there were merits in allowing a person to _choose_ the way they want to be useful instead of simply accepting the path they had been given.

She hoped that her husband and Madara would not return soon. If she had more time, she was sure that she could eventually show the Uchiha that their rejection of her very being was ironic, for each one of them was so much more than what their clan allowed them to be. Even though a long delay would mean that Tobirama was likely in deep trouble, or Madara and Hashirama had met danger that not even their ridiculously strong abilities could deal with in a single blow, Mito wished they would take their time. 

Then she could show the Uchiha that they were all far more similar to her in their capabilities that they were to the roles that they had been given.

(Was that her vindictiveness in wanting to be proven right about her ways, or a genuine desire to see them fulfil the potential that she could see being wasted? Mito wasn’t quite sure, and cared nothing about defining the difference.)

It would, she stifled another smile, be an entertaining challenge.

Enough time had passed that Hikaku and Touka should be arriving soon. Mito turned her attention back on her chakra sense and settled both hands on top of the parapet. The gates were mostly made of stone, some of it brought from the Uchiha’s lands, but the basic scaffolding was wood. She wound her chakra around her husband’s mokuton, lashes fluttering at the feel of the near-living wood practically chirping to welcome her, and let it lead her down the walls and into the forests around the village that the mokuton was connected to.

Less than five hundred metres now. Mito opened her mouth, about to announce that she would be leaving the village to greet the two arriving, when the mokuton beneath her hands _shrieked_.

Something was approaching. Something huge and terribly old, the edges of its chakra threatening to burn through the living wood even from the twenty-or-so kilometres of forest that separated it from the village. Mito’s fingers curled, practically digging into stone as she split the chakra threads even further, refining her senses— she could feel the massive beast’s anger, but she pushed through it and—

There, a cold and malevolent chakra she _knew_. There, practically bracketing and protecting that dark presence that Touka and Izuna had left to find, was the distinctive fire-bright signatures of three Uchiha. 

Rocking back on her heels, Mito let out a long, low breath. “Tsurugi-san,” she said softly. “Have there been shinobi Uchiha members who have left both the village and the compound lately?”

“As the civilian head, Mito-sama, I am—” Tsurugi started, but thankfully stopped when Mito snapped her hand through the air, nearly smacking him across the face.

“Please save the formalities,” she said, shifting away from her usual placid tone to allow some of the urgency to bleed through. “There is a threat approaching the village, and I need to know if there are Uchiha who are missing.”

Tsurugi’s eyes narrowed. He exchanged a glance with his wife before he straightened. “This morning,” he said, every word as stiff as his posture, “one of the sentries reported that three of our numbers headed out of the compound. As they are high-ranking shinobi of the clan and they did not leave the compound alone, we had thought it unnecessary to inform you.”

The Uchiha’s rejection of her, Mito thought grimly, meant that they deliberately kept information from her. Information that had suddenly become necessary for her to know in order to protect them. 

It seemed that she would have the time she needed to ease them into accepting her and the slow-forming philosophy she was creating in her head, after all.

“These shinobi,” Mito murmured, turning away from Tsurugi to stare into the distance. “Please tell me their names.”

For a moment, Tsurugi’s chakra spiked. Words gathered under Mito’s tongue to forestall his protest, but a far more effective method suddenly came to her aid: Shiomi’s hand on her husband’s arm, squeezing. Her eyes were hooded, hiding her expression, but the tips of her fingers were white.

“Hiuchi, Choukai, and Ryuuon,” Tsurugi said. His chin jutted down towards his chest.

“They are the elders of the clan,” Shiomi said, speaking directly and deliberately to Mito for the first time. “They were extremely resistant against the peace agreement with the Senju, and rejected even more the notion of the village.”

Madara might have Izuna, but Mito doubted that even Izuna would have the cunning and underhanded methods required to make the elders of his clan believe that their wishes were being heard before slowly pulling the floor beneath their feet to send them falling into the abyss of powerlessness. 

Which meant, Mito finished the thought grimly, that these were shinobi who had plenty of reason to destroy the village. And if they were to do so in full view of the entire Senju clan, nothing Mito could say or do would convince the Senju to keep to their end of the agreement. The Senju elders might even demand to have Tobirama back, and Mito knew that taking Tobirama from Madara right now when her little brother had barely found a semblance of safety with the Uchiha clan head, when he had already gotten attached to him…

(Hashirama had said, laughing, that Madara had pointed out Mito didn’t know what peace meant, that she saw no benefit in the village except that it was something that he, Hashirama, had wanted. Mito had stroked her husband’s jaw, and laughed quietly that Madara was really far more perceptive than even he himself had realised.) 

“Tsurugi-san, Shiomi-san,” she said, turning towards them. “Please call every Uchiha shinobi to be stationed here, at the gates.” Then, without waiting for them to reply, she swung on her heel. “Head of the Senju Guards!” She called to the man who led the Senju’s sentry regiment. “Inform the Senju shinobi that I have called for them to gather here!” 

She didn’t wait for his nod – unlike the Uchiha, the Senju all obeyed her by now without question. It had been years since she had earned her name among them, after all.

“What are you planning, Mito-sama?” Tsurugi asked. When Mito glanced at him, she realised that he was already halfway down the steps. Good; he wasn’t making a fuss over her orders.

“I will retrieve Hikaku-san and Touka-kun myself,” she said. “And we will meet this threat.”

“Please tell us what it is, Mito-sama,” Shiomi said, her head tipped up to meet Mito’s gaze squarely. “Without such information, it will be difficult to gather the shinobi.”

“A monster,” Mito said, already slipping her steel-tipped fan from her sleeve and slicing at the legs of her tomesode – she had no time to return back to the house to change into the half-komon and hakama she usually used for battle, so this would have to do. “A chakra beast that is greater than this gate in size, and, from the chakra threads I can feel from here, it is likely controlled by the Sharingan of the three missing Uchiha shinobi.”

Cloth ripped. Mito tore it the rest of the way, and kicked off her shoes. Her tabi were the pristine white she usually wore, but they, like her tomesode, could be easily replaced. “There is a dark presence close to them, one that I have met it before.” Looking up, she met Shiomi’s eyes, and then Tsurugi’s. “It is capable of infecting the minds of humans and twisting them to do its bidding. The last person who had been affected was Izuna-san.”

Using the sharp tips of her fan to slice open her sleeves, Mito let them hang open so her arms were free and her skin on display. She gave the civilian heads of the Uchiha – both of them shared the position, no matter how much Shiomi pretended to defer to her husband – a thin-lipped smile.

“Hikaku-san will be delivered safely into the village, and I promise that, if it is at all within my power, no Uchiha shinobi or civilian currently within the village will be harmed by the monster _or _the presence,” she said. “I swear that upon the honour I have borrowed from Uchiha Madara-sama as the leader of the Uchiha.”

“Then upon the honour of the Uchiha,” Tsurugi said, placing a hand over his heart and bowing deeply, “we swear that the Uchiha shinobi will be gathered here in military formation, and the medics ready with their equipment, by the time Hikaku’s feet touched village grounds.”

“We will persuade them to protect this village,” Shiomi said, her eyes narrowed upon Mito’s. “Shoulder-to-shoulder with the Senju.”

Neither of them mentioned her hint that the three Uchiha shinobi outside would most likely die by her hand. An unexpected boon, and one that Mito would not question.

Sweeping out an arm, Mito bowed to them. “Uzumaki Mito is honoured by the trust given to her by the Uchiha,” she said. Then, without another word, she slapped a hand on top of the parapet, and swung herself over it.

Wind whipped through her bare legs before she landed on the ground, rolling forward to cut the impact of the fall. The elaborate braids keeping her hair back loosened, spilling ribbons and strands down her back. Mito spared half a second to slide her fingers into her hair, a seal blooming and looping the locks together to pull them away from her face.

She ran. It didn’t take more than a minute at a full spring before she spotted Touka. Her mouth opened, but the words in her throat died the moment her mind caught up with what she was _seeing_.

Touka carried Hikaku on her back, which explained how their chakra signatures were so close together. Her forearms were beneath his thighs, steadying him, while his arms were crossed and his knuckles were white as he gripped onto his own elbows. The reason why both of them were taking such pains to ensure that Hikaku didn’t fall was obvious:

Hikaku didn’t have ankles to loop in front of Touka’s hips to steady himself. He didn’t have _anything_ below the knees that were digging into Touka’s waist. 

Despite the urgency churning through her veins, Mito could only stare, a hand pressed over her mouth. This was… this was a _horrifying_ injury, far worse than she had expected.

“It was that damned creature,” Touka explained shortly, showing no surprise whatsoever at Mito’s presence in front of her. “Izuna went off to the Land of Lightning to chase it, and he left me to bring Hikaku back here.”

The Land of Lightning. Madara and Hashirama was headed in the same direction—

“I am, once again, flattered by Touka-san speaking of me as if I am a sandbag to be carried,” Hikaku said, the dry amusement in his voice so jarring that Mito’s thoughts slipped out of her mind’s grip. Then his gaze shifted from Touka to Mito, and he dipped his chin downwards. “Mito-sama. It is unexpected that you have come to greet us.”

Mito swallowed hard before she strode forward, eyes shifting from Touka to Hikaku before staring past the latter’s shoulder into the distance. “There was no need for Izuna-san to try to find the creature in the Land of Lightning,” she stated. “Because it is headed straight for here.”

“What,” Touka said flatly.

“It is not alone, is it?” Hikaku murmured, already turning his head to follow Mito’s gaze.

“There is a massive chakra presence with him, the same one that prompted Tobirama to first seek out Izuna-san nearly a year ago,” Mito explained. “And…” she hesitated.

“How many Uchiha does it have?” At Mito’s startled gaze, Hikaku smiled, and tipped his head slightly downwards. “I spent time in the creature’s company, Mito-sama. I have some clue of its intentions.”

“Three,” Mito said. “Tsurugi-san told me that they left the compound this morning, and their names are Hiuchi, Choukai, and Ryuuon.”

Hikaku hissed out a long breath, jerking his head back to toss a few flyaway strands of hair away from his eyes. “Touka-san, it seems that the theory that all of you have come up with, that the creature is capable of taking one’s darkest thoughts and amplifying them into action, is true, after all.” Then, before Touka could reply, he turned back to Mito.

“Those three have the Sharingan, and they are some of the most developed of the clan,” Hikaku said, tone brisk and business-like. “I don’t suppose Madara-sama is in the village?”

“No,” Mito shook her head.

Closing his eyes, Hikaku dropped his head forward, practically burying his face into Touka’s hair. To Mito’s great surprise, Touka didn’t move away; her expression didn’t even change. It was as if she not only allowed this encroachment into the tightly-held space of her body, but it was something that had happened enough times that she had gotten used to it. 

The only person in the Senju clan who was more averse to touch than Touka was, she knew, was _Tobirama_. 

(But Tobirama leaned towards Madara’s touch like a flower turning its face to the sun.)

What did it say of the Senju, Mito thought dully, that they could not abide the touch of their own clansmen, but welcomed the warmth of their generations-long enemies the moment it was allowed?

“Without Madara-sama and Izuna-sama,” Hikaku said, voice muffled by Touka’s hair but every word still clearly-enunciated enough to be heard, “I am the only one within the clan capable of facing off three Sharingans at the same time.” He lifted his head, and his smile was wry and his eyes true black as he turned them to Mito. “But I am like this.”

“There is a way,” Mito blurted out. “If you will allow it.”

“At this point,” Hikaku said, voice wry, “I don’t think I have a choice.”

Touka snorted, shaking her head gently enough that she didn’t smack Hikaku with her long tail of hair. “You can simply just give up and let the creature and the monster it brought with it destroy the village,” she said. “The peace agreement will be broken, and all of our efforts for the past year would go up in smoke.” 

Hikaku didn’t say a word, but Touka laughed as if he did. “It _is_ something you can do,” she continued.

At this point, Mito withdrew her hand from the ground. The ink of the seal she had laid sank into the soil. 

Before the very last of the black ink had vanished, Mito bit the thumb of her other hand and slammed it onto the same spot.

“Kuchiyose no Jutsu!”

Ink spread out around her once again, the matrixes and patterns entirely different from the last one but crawling over dead leaves and soil and roots in much of the same way, before everything vanished to be replaced with a puff of smoke. Mito lifted her head up even as she folded her legs beneath her body. As the smoke cleared, revealing a body large enough to dwarf even the oaks around her, she touched her forehead to the ground.

“Thank you for answering my summons, Tamamo-no-Mae-sama,” she murmured.

The fox was massive, taller than the village’s gates and at least half the length of the whole thing when measured from snout to the longest of her nine tails. She was pure white, with the only spots of colour the golden lotus on the centre of her forehead and the dark amber of her shining eyes. She was beautiful and magnificent and so old and powerful that there weren’t a single legend made of her, but several. 

“Mito-chan,” she greeted, long whiskers brushing past Mito’s neck and one of her tails caressing the top of her hair. “How many times must I tell you that such formalities are unnecessary between us?”

“At least once more, Tamamo-no-Mae-sama,” Mito said, letting a small smile curve her lips. “Especially when I have once again summoned you to the mortal realm for battle instead of the tea I have promised you.”

“You married a man with the ability to manipulate wood, yet you still cannot find a house and a chabudai large enough to fit me?” Even though she had no eyebrows, Mito had a feeling that the grand fox spirit would be arching one if she did. “But never mind that, Mito-chan. I know what you have called me here for. I can feel it.” One of her tails whipped through the air, crashing into branches and scattering leaves and broken twigs onto the forest floor.

“I can feel _him_,” she growled.

Mito blinked. Tamamo-no-Mae knew the chakra beast? “Tamamo-no-Mae-sama,” she started hesitantly. “_What_ is he?”

“A fake,” the fox spirit answered, tossing her massive head back and scattering even more leaves. “He dares to wear tails without having gone through the thousand years of suffering and training that will earn him the _right _to have them.” She snorted, white fangs bared and glinting in the sunlight. “I have heard that he was _born_ with them. Ridiculous.”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Mito felt a twitch forming on her lips. “It is rare to hear you so annoyed, Tamamo-no-Mae-sama,” she said. “Is your anger at him also because he is,” she paused, “well, a _him_?”

“Tell me, Touka-chan, friend of Mito-chan,” Tamamo-no-Mae said, turning her large amber eyes suddenly to Touka and Hikaku, the latter of whom was staring wide-eyed at her while the former was obviously trying to not laugh, “have you heard of a _male_ fox spirit?”

“I have not,” Hikaku started. “Excuse me, but when Mito-sama called you _Tamamo-no-Mae-sama_—”

“She is the Empress of all foxes within the summons realm,” Mito interrupted before Tamamo-no-Mae could answer, because if Mito allowed her to do so, the fox spirit would detail her entire history, and that would take literal hours. “And she has lived for millennia, Hikaku-san. All legends of fox spirits originate from _her_.”

“Oh,” Hikaku whispered. “You _are_ that Tamamo-no-Mae.” He blinked rapidly. “Wow.”

Mito couldn’t blame him for his shock and awe. The legends of Tamamo-no-Mae stretched back to thousands of years ago, and not even in the same continent that contained the five great shinobi countries and Uzushio. According to those stories, Tamamo-no-Mae had influenced Kings and Princes of several dynasties, and changed the history of several countries spread across different continents.

Civilians thought that she had been sealed in a stone by a powerful priest. According to Tamamo-no-Mae herself, she had simply gotten bored of the mortal realm, shed her human skin, and retired permanently into the summoning realm along with the fox kits she had picked up over her centuries of travel.

“Now, Mito-chan,” Tamamo-no-Mae said, drawing Mito’s attention back to her. “Tell me what is happening, and what your plans are that will let me rip that imposter’s throat out.” She grinned, fangs bright and sharp. “I’ve been waiting for a chance to do that.”

Rocking back on her heels, Mito stood. “The chakra— _imposter_,” she corrected herself at the soft growl, “is currently controlled by three Uchiha shinobi, who are being controlled by a creature who is capable of morphing into different shapes.”

“Like a fox spirit?” Tamamo-no-Mae asked.

“Not quite,” Hikaku answered, clearly having found his poise and equilibrium again. “It can split itself into two or even more bodies, and it can directly corrupt people’s minds.” He hesitated. “We still do not know _how_ it does that—”

“Matters not to me,” Tamamo-no-Mae said, jerking her head to the side as her tails swished back and forth. “So, are you planning to kill all of them, or…?”

“This might displease you, Tamamo-no-Mae-sama, but,” Mito tipped her head up, meeting those yellow eyes directly, “the only creature we want destroyed is the dark presence currently creating this chaos. Please do _not_ kill the imposter.” She hesitated for a moment. “We… owe him a great deal.”

“You owe _him_?” Tamamo-no-Mae said, sounding incredulous. “That _fake_?”

“I have spoken to you that my husband wishes to create peace within the Land of Fire, and about how I have devoted myself to trying to make it come true,” Mito said. When her summon nodded, Mito sighed. “_He_,” she jerked her chin in the direction of the approaching chakra beast, “allowed that to happen. Not intentionally, perhaps, but…”

“Say no more,” Tamamo-no-Mae said, the irritated crease between her brows easing up. “I am a spirit, Mito-chan. I understand the weight of debts. Especially those that are acknowledged only by a single party.” She sighed, three of her tails thumped hard onto the forest floor and making everything shudder from their weight.

“Very well. I will not try to kill him on sight.”

“So,” Touka spoke up, her voice ringing out for a first time in a while. She didn’t move when three pairs of eyes, turned on her. “It’s all very well and good that we know what’s going on and the ideal outcome we want at the end of this, but how are we going to get from here to there?” 

Withdrawing her fan from her sleeve, Mito snapped it open, and smiled at Touka from above the sharpened tips. “Patience, Touka-kun,” she murmured. “I have a plan.”

Water dripped from somewhere, the smack of each drop against bare stones arrhythmic to his heartbeat. Beneath his knocking knuckles, the horizontally-laid stones were dense and solid. Twenty-four of them stretched from one end of the cell to the other, and fifty-three from the ceiling down to the floor. Metal bars clicked when tapped upon with a nail, and rough powder flaked off onto his palm with every scratch. Old blood and mould burdened the heavy, musty air that only moved when the creaking door down the hallway opened, which it rarely did.

Tobirama had been learning to understand his surroundings with neither sight nor chakra sense.

Seated in the centre of the cell, he pressed his palms hard against the concrete. But materials that had never lived rarely answered his call. He slid his fingers up his arms instead, feeling the slick surfaces of the seals inked on his skin from wrists to shoulders.

The symbols were half-familiar – whorls in the places where Uzushio seals would have spikes, slashes where there would be curves – and Tobirama reckoned that the seal-maker had merely studied whichever of Uzushio’s scrolls they could steal or smuggle, and extrapolated from them instead of picking up knowledge straight from the mouth of a master from the land surrounded by whirlpools.

After all, the clans of the Land of Lightning had as much knowledge of seals as clans in the Land of Fire that were not Senju, and Uzushio never had any dealings with this particular country.

Hayase would not be pleased to know that his island’s speciality had not only been stolen, but bastardised as well. Especially since the version was so unsophisticated that Tobirama could feel his chakra writhing where they were trapped in within his own coils, heat gathering with every other breath he took. A few days more – maybe a week – and his coils would be so burnt that his chakra sense would be permanently damaged, much less his ability to use jutsu. 

He would never be able to perform the role of an active shinobi ever again.

Not that he had been one all of this time. The bigger issue, Tobirama tilted his head to the side contemplatively, was how he was supposed to continue functioning in any kind of capacity while being completely blind.

Perhaps he could take the path chosen by many Senju shinobi after they had been forcibly retired by injury. It was an honourable road, and one he knew very well: the strength of his chakra sense had made it his duty to direct the civilians to collect those bodies after those former shinobi had slit their own throats to feed the forest so the trees and poisonous plants could better protect the Senju lands. 

Madara would be not be pleased at his choice; he had spent so much effort creating and cementing Tobirama’s place in the Uchiha, after all, that Tobirama choosing the Senju path for his death would likely be seen as a betrayal. Still, he could surely be made to see sense. 

What use would Tobirama be like this? What use _could_ he be?

Except that even the path was closed to him right now. He was trapped here, so far from the Land of Fire that his blood would not reach those lands ever after decades had passed. Even if he was to die, he had to escape first. 

The only alternative was for him to die here, helpless and useless, and Tobirama had defined himself by his efficiency for too long to allow such a thing to happen.

His contemplations were once again interrupted by a screeching creak. As wood slammed against stone, making the air itself rattle, Tobirama turned his head in the direction of the door at the end of the hallway. 

“You understand exactly what we want from you.” The voice made familiar over days drawled, thickening the Lightning accent further. “You know the consequences if you do not obey. Yet I suppose you have not changed your mind.”

The clatter of keys against a lock. Stone and concrete shuddered as the heavy chain was drawn away from the bars. Tobirama stayed where he was, unmoving, even as cold hands landed on his shoulders and dragged him to his feet.

“It would be so much easier for me,” his warden continued, fingers digging into Tobirama’s biceps as he marched him forward, “if your death were the ultimate goal. Unfortunately for me, our venerable daimyo does not think that to a good idea.”

Tobirama did not reply. There was no need for him to do so.

A sigh rang out, loud enough for the mockery to be clear. “I suppose it’s long past time that I give you an incentive.”

_Another_ one? Tobirama almost let out a snort at their desperation: they had already withheld food and water from him _and_ locked up his chakra, and he had not given in. He had been trained for such eventualities after all; though Father had never explicitly stated that the survival training sessions he had to endure could be used to withstand imprisonment, Tobirama could make his own conjectures. 

So, what other ways could they think of to force him to obey their wishes, especially after they had closed the door to the only way to make him do what they wanted?

(They could have simply offered to ally with the still-unnamed village on the condition that Tobirama helped them, because Tobirama knew that Hashirama would eagerly jump upon the opportunity, and possibly shed a few dramatic tears about other countries in the continent following his way to peace.

The only reason why that wouldn’t have worked, Tobirama knew, was if Madara had forbidden it. And he couldn’t think of any reason why Madara would keep from selling Tobirama’s skills if the price offered was an even greater chance at peace.

Now, there was no chance that Hashirama would agree to such a thing even if it was offered. No matter how many times he had witnessed for himself Tobirama’s capabilities, Hashirama was still entirely unreasonable when it came to ensuring his little brother’s safety. Sometimes Tobirama wondered if Hashirama looked at him and still saw the trembling six-year-old scrubbing the blood of his first battlefield from his hands instead of the seasoned shinobi that small boy had become.)

Wind. Tobirama barely kept his head from jerking to where he could feel it brushing over his sweat-damp right cheek.

Were there ranma close by? That was strange, because Tobirama hadn’t felt them heading upwards in any way, and he had been so sure that the cell he was in was underground, because he had always heard sounds coming from above and never below. 

Had he been wrong? Could it be that he was so incapacitated by the loss of his barely-tenable sight that he couldn’t even tell which level he had been kept in for _days_?

“We’ve heard plenty of rumours about you,” his warden said, the sudden sound of his voice breaking Tobirama’s train of thought. “Some useful, some not.”

Tobirama focused on putting one foot in front of another.

Heaving out a gusty sigh, his warden shoved him on the shoulder. Tobirama rocked himself backwards with the blow so he would not trip.

“What manner of shinobi isn’t even curious about what is being said about him?” the man grumbled. “Still, I never thought that the one about you never meeting anyone’s eyes was true.”

No, it _wasn’t_: Tobirama simply never met his opponents’ eyes because he never could tell where they were, but he always _did_ try his best to meet the gazes of his clansmen, whether Senju or Uchiha. There had been plenty of occasions when he had stared straight into Madara’s or Izuna’s Sharingan, too.

But there was no way that his warden, or any person from the Land of Lightning for the matter, could have known that. Tobirama had only been here a handful of times for missions before he had been forcibly taken, after all. 

Still, it was curious: he did not realise that it disturbed his opponents so much when he did not meet their gazes when he fought them that it had become such an integral part of his reputation. If there was a way for him to figure out how to fight even when he was like this, then it might just be possible for him to perform his duty as an active shinobi once again because he was aware that the habit caused by bad sight could be used as a weapon to disconcert his opponents. 

He needed to stop thinking about that. It had been almost an entire year since he had put down his sword and happuri, thinking that he would never pick them up again, and he hadn’t truly minded because he had managed to make himself useful in other ways. Yet now, trapped here, his mind returned again and again to the thoughts of battle.

The sounds of hundreds of shinobi sandals slapping upon wet soil echoed dimly at the edge of his hearing. The hissing crackle of lighting, the booming roar of flames.

Hashirama would know better than to wage war for Tobirama’s sake. Even if he didn’t, Mito and Madara both had enough sense and power to stop him. Surely, they would not throw away their hard-won peace simply because Tobirama had been taken. Surely, they… he hissed out a long breath that was thankfully drowned out by the loud shriek of yet another set of rusty hinges. 

Then he nearly choked on his own tongue when a hand slammed hard between his shoulderblades, shoving him forward with enough force that he nearly fell flat onto his face. His hands managed to slam onto the floor in front of him.

Concrete again. But unlike that which covered the floor of his cell, it wasn’t cold. In fact, it was hot enough that Tobirama had to grit his teeth as he wouldn’t give into the urge to yank himself away.

“This should make you rethink your priorities,” his warden said. Then, having clearly given up on getting any form of reply from Tobirama, he threw the door shut, making the wood crash so hard against its doorframe that the sound reverberated in Tobirama’s bones.

Hot air washed over his skin immediately, tinged with sulphur that reminded Tobirama of the only onsen he had ever been to in his life. But it was different, sharper, because the stench of a belching volcano that lingered in an onsen would usually not be accompanied by the rasp of heavy breaths. Neither was the air of an onsen so oppressively heavy with rage and tension that crawled over his skin with every heartbeat.

He had found another use for his current blindness, Tobirama realised: if he could see, he would know exactly what he had been locked in together with. He wondered if that was the warden’s intention; if the man was now waiting on the other side of the door for Tobirama to start gibbering in fear and begging to be let out.

Folding back to sit on his calves, Tobirama stretched an arm out behind him instead. His fingertips skimmed lightly over the cold surface of the door, and he could feel the same smoothness of seal-ink on it. But the patterns here didn’t resemble those on his skin; instead, there were a few matrixes and symbols that seemed to resemble… storage scrolls? 

No. The overarching pattern resembled those of storage scrolls, certainly, but there were so many modifications made – few of which he could recognise, and fewer that resembled suppression seals that Uzushio liked to use in their rooms – that it had mutated so far from the original that its purpose couldn’t be for _storage_ in the slightest. No, this was… This was definitely made for _entrapment_ instead.

He had been wrong, Tobirama realised, breath catching in his throat. Whoever made this hadn’t learned sealing from stolen Uzushio scrolls, because a seal like this required even more theoretical knowledge that Tobirama had. This approached _Mito’s_ level of mastery, which meant that…

An Uzushio sealing master had made this. Hayase might have refused the offer made by the Lightning Daimyo, but someone within his island – or even his _clan_ – had taken it up on his stead. 

But how could that be? The loyalty of Uzushio shinobi to their island and their Prince was so infamous that not even Father had attempted to sway one of them to the Senju’s side. It would be impossible to kidnap one and force them to do the Lightning daimyo’s bidding, either, because Tobirama knew for a fact that every seal-master carried poison in a false tooth at the back of their mouths. 

Besides, if they had stolen an Uzushio seal-master, then there was no reason for them to steal Tobirama. Whatever knowledge of seals Tobirama had paled in comparison to that which was held by those who were born and bred on shores and libraries of Uzushio.

Letting out a long breath, Tobirama shook his head. The identity of the seal-maker was of a far lower priority than the other inhabitant of this room.

Slowly, he turned towards the source of the heavy breaths. “You’re trapped here,” he said, carefully keeping his voice steady. “They’ve captured you somehow, and now you can’t get out… because of these seals,” his fingers tapped against the wood of the door, “right?”

“Are you _talking_ to me?”

Despite the low, rumbling nature of the voice – so much that the air trembled with the force of it – it was unmistakeably female. Tobirama nodded. “Yes.” He cocked his head to the side. “Am I not supposed to do so?”

She made a sound that would be a snort if it came from a human, but was instead a sharp blast of air that threatened to flatten Tobirama against the door. “I think you’re supposed to start screaming and begging for mercy.”

“I’ve never been particularly good at meeting expectations,” he shrugged. When no reply came, he cocked his head to the side. “Do you have a name? I am Tobirama.”

There was such a long pause that Tobirama wondered if he had made a grave mistake. Slowly, he pushed himself away from the door and took a single step forward with his hands kept stiff by his sides. “If you don’t wish to—”

“You’re _Isobu’s_ Tobirama.” That was definitely a note of incredulity in her voice, one which Tobirama felt almost insulted by because he felt _exactly _the same way.

“Isobu?” he blurted out. “Big, looks like a turtle, whines a great deal when I told him he can’t play in whirlpools because of the humans living there? Who explicitly did something I told him was dangerous to do? _That _Isobu?”

A huge roar suddenly filled the room. Tobirama ducked down immediately, wrapping his arms around his head as his ears were assaulted by the sound and his face and body smacked by its vibrations. He squeezed his useless eyes tighter shut, but it did no good, so he tried to focus on breathing steadily.

“You speak about my brother like he is a recalcitrant child.” Her voice was still a too-loud rasp, but— was that _mirth _he could hear in her voice? “Entirely accurate, true, but I have never heard a human speak about him this way. Not even our father.”

_Brother. Our father_. This was Isobu’s _sister_, which meant that she likely had the same human – or human-sized – father that Isobu had mentioned. 

How could a creature as large as this be born from a human? What kind of human had given birth to not just one, but _two _huge chakra beasts like Isobu and this one? And what were they anyway? It seemed so terribly rude to refer to them as ‘beasts,’ even if it was only in his own head.

Brushing the thoughts to the side for further consideration later, Tobirama answered the question: “He was making tidal waves that threatened to drown an island under my protection,” he explained. “When I told him that it was dangerous and that he should play in the deep waters further from the continent, he actually _went_ to the island to ask for their permission.” 

He huffed out a breath, shaking his head. “I have met human children below the age of seven who had more sense.”

She made that resounding roar again. This time, Tobirama managed to jam his hands over his ears in time, though he still had to grit his teeth as his bones felt like they were threatening to shake apart. And with that shield, he could actually _listen_ properly, and he knew, now:

This was laughter. She was _laughing_ at what he had said. Tobirama blinked; was what he said truly that funny?

“Matatabi,” she said, her voice growing serious so suddenly that Tobirama’s hands dropped down immediately to his sides. “The name I was given is Matatabi.” 

Tobirama was scrambling to think of a reply – “nice to meet you” did not seem appropriate for the circumstances – when she continued, “And you’re right: I was captured, and I am now trapped here, because of those seals.”

“You said that it is the name you have been given,” Tobirama said before he could stop himself. “Do you use another one for yourself, then?”

Another sharp sound rang out. This time, Tobirama took only a couple of seconds to identify it as a snort. “Humans used another one for me, and it’s such a terrible one that I dislike even acknowledging that it exists.”

He had some sense that he was supposed to know what she was talking about, and it was nearly enough to make him laugh. Only nearly, because he _did_ have enough self-preservation instinct to understand that he really shouldn’t try her patience, and this would be a very trying topic for her.

So, he scrambled for another topic instead. “Do you know who made these seals?” he asked.

“The names of humans who have never asked for mine have never mattered to me,” Matatabi said. Even though Tobirama couldn’t see her, he had a feeling that she had just tipped her head back in a haughty sniff.

Still, she had a point in doing so. Besides, from her vantage view – the nature of her voice and her relation to Isobu made it very obvious that she was as large or even larger than he was – humans likely all looked the same to her, except for maybe the colours of their skin and hair. What reason would she have to try to differentiate blobs of colour from each other, especially when those very smears had always treated her so terribly?

“Are you going to keep talking to me?” she asked.

Tobirama tilted his head back in her direction. “Would you prefer that I leave you in silence?” he asked.

“That’s not the point,” Matatabi snorted. “I just think that they,” she must mean the shinobi of the Land of Lightning, “must be disappointed that you’re not begging for your life by now.”

She didn’t answer his question, Tobirama noted. He carefully didn’t call her out on it: even if she wasn’t a massive creature who likely saw herself above humans and had plenty of reason to do so, no one liked having their loneliness and want for company mentioned. 

Besides, there was another matter that was far more important. “They can continue being disappointed,” he shrugged. “Because I will never do such a thing.”

“Even if I stop talking to you and try to eat you?”

“You have full rights to do so,” Tobirama acknowledged, “because they have brought me here for the sole purpose of making your life even worse than it is now. It is entirely understandable if you kill me for the sake of protecting your own life and increasing your chances for freedom.”

There was a long silence. “Have you any idea,” she said slowly, “why you’re here?”

“Of course,” Tobirama said, a little insulted despite himself. “They wish for me to create a seal that would trap you inside the body of a human, and allow that person to use your chakra for their own purposes.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “And they had put me in front of you hoping that I will do their bidding, either because I am afraid of losing of my own life, or because I will see you as a monster and see the supposed sense in making you into a weapon for humans to use.”

“Which will you choose?” Matatabi asked. Despite the casualness of her tone, Tobirama knew the weight that laid behind that question.

“Neither,” he answered easily. “Even if you try to eat me, even if I end up becoming entirely useless because my chakra coils have burnt out from the suppression seals they have used, I would not create the seal they want.”

Another long silence. Tobirama had a feeling that every single one of those signalled that he had surprised her in one manner or another. Which was confusing, really, because he was simply taking the only path that made sense to him.

“I didn’t think users of ninjutsu had principles,” Matatabi said finally.

Now _that_ was another curious term. Those who used ninjutsu were, without exception, all shinobi. That term was far shorter and more efficient to say, but Matatabi had deliberately deviated from it.

Was it because she refused to grant the shinobi their proper title, and therefore it was a show of disrespect? Or was there another reason? 

He filed that to the back of his mind to be considered later.

“This is not a matter of principle,” he said, returning his attention back to the rest of her sentence. “But pragmatism.”

“Hah,” Matatabi said. “Explain that, Isobu’s Tobirama.”

Was that how she was going to address him? He supposed it could be worse.

“If you look at it in terms of numbers,” he began, “the choice I made is the only logical one.” When she did not reply, he elaborated, “Only a fool would not see that the Lightning daimyo wishes to use you, and the human you will be trapped within, as a weapon against his enemies, whoever those that might be. In a situation like that, people will certainly die in great numbers, because you’re incredibly powerful.”

“You can’t even see me,” Matatabi murmured, “and have I not been trapped here, entirely helpless?”

“Isobu created tidal waves kilometres away by simply moving within the water,” Tobirama countered. “And just because you are currently imprisoned does not mean that you are incapable. Would I be wrong to predict that, if you get free, you will destroy this entire building, and perhaps the entirety of the Land of Lightning, and you are perfectly capable of doing so?”

She made that snorting noise again. This time, she sounded almost pleased. Tobirama couldn’t tell if there was enough light within the room for her to see him, so he ducked his head down to hide his smirk in case there was.

“Continue,” Matatabi said.

Nodding, Tobirama obeyed. “If you weigh the deaths of many against the death of one,” he said, “it is clear that the former is far more important.” He paused. “And it is not only the deaths of many that will be the price for my life, either.”

“What do you mean?”

“If the Lightning daimyo has you as a weapon,” Tobirama said, “the daimyos of the other shinobi countries will likely want one like you as well.” He stretched out his legs in front of him and leaned forward to place his hands atop his knees. “If I take a guess, you do not only have Isobu as a sibling. So, if I create the seal, I will not only doom many to their deaths and steal your freedom, but I will also threaten the freedom of every single of your siblings as the other daimyos ordered for them to be captured and used as a weapon. In this scenario, the only ending will be war on a bigger scale than anyone has ever known; a war between all five shinobi countries, or even more.”

He spread out his hands. “What matters the life of one person in comparison?”

This time, her silence stretched out for so long that he wondered if his speech had been so long that she had fallen asleep in the middle of it though her breathing did not sound nearly as steady enough for such a thing.

Finally, she said, “You are a strange human, Isobu’s Tobirama.”

“I am not,” Tobirama denied, shaking his head. “Any shinobi – or user of ninjutsu, as you might call them – that the Land of Lightning would have brought here would’ve chosen the same path.”

“Would they, really?” For some reason, she sounded curious instead of challenging.

Tobirama tipped his head to the side, considering. “Yes,” he said, certainty steeling his voice. “Any seal-master of Uzushio would rather die than to betray their Prince and island,” which made the identity of the seal-maker that had captured and trapped Matatabi here an urgent issue to investigate once he had the resources to do so, “and the only other person I know of who has enough skill to make the seal they desire would have already bitten off her own tongue and bled to death.”

“Uzushio,” Matatabi said. “That little island off the coast of the continent.”

“Yes,” Tobirama nodded.

“What is the name of that other person you know of?”

“Mito,” he answered. “Once a Princess of Uzushio, and now my sister-in-law and the matriarch of the Senju clan.” He paused, and then tried to clarify, “A clan is—”

“I might not know much of humans, but I know what a clan is,” Matatabi said. “I thought you clanless, because you did not tell me your surname. Your full name is Senju Tobirama, isn’t it?”

“_Uchiha _Tobirama,” Tobirama corrected, shaking his head. “Senju Tobirama was a name I once owned, but now I am an Uchiha.” Something strange shivered through the air, as if Matatabi had straightened up in shock or surprise. “I willingly gave up my surname when I became a concubine of the Uchiha, and my husband Madara, the clan head, granted me the surname.” He paused. That strange air was still there, so he elaborated further. “I introduced myself without a surname because Isobu did not give me one, so I had thought—”

“Ootsutsuki,” Matatabi said, interrupting him. “That is my and Isobu’s surname.”

He had heard of that surname before. Or was it something he had read once, somewhere? For the life of him, Tobirama couldn’t remember. 

It didn’t matter. He unfolded his legs and stood before he bowed low with a hand over his heart. “Ootsutsuki Matatabi,” he murmured. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“Uchiha Tobirama,” Matatabi returned. Then she laughed, low and rumbling. “Oh, but if my father and uncle could have met you. If they could have _seen_ you, you and that clan head husband of yours.” 

Tobirama could think of nothing to say in response. He lowered his head further, and kept his lips sealed.

“Tell me, Tobirama of the Senju and the Uchiha,” she said, and he had the distinct sense that she was smiling. No, _grinning_, full of teeth. “How much do you know of seals?”

“There are still some flaws in my knowledge,” Tobirama replied immediately, “but they have brought me here because of my understanding of sealing theory, and my history of inventing new seals.” And, he added to himself, they likely have never heard of Mito’s capabilities because she kept most of them hidden, or they simply could not reach her, cloistered as she kept herself within the Senju compound and the village.

“How confident are you that you will be able to destroy these ones?” Matatabi asked.

Frowning, Tobirama ran the variables through his head. He couldn’t _see_ the seals, and neither could he send his chakra through them to figure out their shapes. There was also the matter of the warden at the side of the door, and how he could come in at any point to interrupt whatever it was that Matatabi was planning. Not to mention that if he asked Matatabi for help to destroy the suppression seals on him, it was likely possible that a sensor within the building would feel it, and all of the shinobi stationed nearby would barge in through the door. Even if everything was resolved, it would be difficult for him to modify the seals, much less destroy them, because he had no access to ink, and his chakra was too suppressed for him to even coalesce the humidity in the air into chakra-infused water that could wipe away the seals. 

The issue here, Tobirama thought, was not his knowledge, or even the lack of it. It was that he likely wouldn’t have the _time_ to figure out how to stop the seals from working; and even if he was granted time, he wouldn’t have the _means_ to act upon the information he had gathered.

“Does your silence mean that you are incapable?” Matatabi asked, voice arch.

“No,” Tobirama said, finally focusing back on her. “Only that I will need you to do a great deal before I can even begin, and I cannot guarantee success even if you help me.”

“But there is a chance,” Matatabi stated.

“Yes,” Tobirama nodded.

“Then let me use a logic similar to yours,” Matatabi said. “I care nothing about the death of humans. Neither do I care about the freedom of my siblings, for if they are as foolish as I was to be captured, then they must find their own way out. But I know this.”

Her voice dropped even lower, and Tobirama could tell from the sharper sulphur wafting past his nose that she had leaned in closer. He could feel, too, heat brushing against his skin, as if Matatabi was surrounded by flames that she was barely bothering to keep away from him.

“If I do nothing, then I will most likely always be trapped, whether here or in a human, because your death would just have these Lightning bastards finding another seal-master,” she said. “But if I help, then there is a chance, no matter how small, that I will be able to escape this room.”

A low rumble of a laugh. “Tell me, Tobirama of the Senju and the Uchiha, what is my choice?”

Tobirama took a deep breath. Then, tipping up his head, he smiled at her.

“Spread your chakra out so that it encompasses the entire room,” he said. “I will hide my presence within yours so that when I push my chakra beyond the suppression seals, the other sensors would not be able to feel it.” She huffed out a soft breath, and Tobirama nodded. “If the warden outside comes in to look for me, tell him you ate me.”

“I have already decided on how you taste,” Matatabi said, and _cackled_. Flames licked across Tobirama’s skin, hot yet not causing pain or burns, with every echo of her voice that bounced into his ears.

Between the heat, the sound of her laughter, and the constant scent of sulphur that surrounded her, Tobirama wondered if she was an avatar of Konohanasakuya-hime, which legend attributed to be the goddess of volcanoes. If she was, then what was Isobu? What was that first massive chakra presence he had felt at the cliffside, to whom he owed the changes in his life because it – he? she? – had allowed him the chance to speak to Izuna?

What would it make the shinobi of the Land of Lightning, that they would dare to not only trap a god, but use her as a weapon?

Tobirama might have despised the way that Uzushio treated him – he deserved none of that worship, and it made finding teachers who would correct his mistakes in sealing theory and jutsu invention extremely difficult – but it was, he reckoned, far better than the choice the Lightning daimyo and his shinobi had made.

“Well?” Matatabi demanded.

Shelving his thoughts away to be considered at greater depths later, Tobirama settled back down on the floor. Her heat settled above him immediately, tongues of non-burning flames licking against his cheeks and the sides of his arms. 

Thus shielded, he reached out a hand, splaying it against the door on the spot where he had first felt the seals. Digging deep within himself, he dragged his chakra through the suppression seals. It roiled within his coils harder, sharper, threatening to burn him up from the inside, but he managed to pull out a single thread, shimmering weakly in his chakra sense.

It was enough.

He jabbed it into wood, and dropped his head back as the first part of the seal bloomed across the back of his eyelids.

Then he did it again. And again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it was bonehandledknife who stated, all the way back in Chapter 12, that she thinks another bijuu might appear because of the rule of three. Congratulations, you guessed _completely right_. And, as per the rule of three, the third appearance is the most important.
> 
> Credit to [goddcoward](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17491346) for being the first one to introduce Matatabi as being part of Tobirama fanon, though I first encountered the idea in [_The Curse of Hatred_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16006997) by [Tamamo-no-Mae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demetria_0620Demetria_0620</a>.%0A%0A<a%20href=) is a real fox spirit, and her legend stretches from China in 1000BC to India in 800BC to China again in 700BC and then in Japan of 1100AD. By the time of this fic, she’s over two thousand five hundred years old, which is more than _twice _Kurama’s age. And yes, the fox ‘Mae’ all the way back in Chapter 6 is a foreshadowing for her appearance here. (He’s also one of her favourites, because he’s allowed to take part of her name for her own.)
> 
> You don’t think that I would’ve constantly mentioned youkai, have Mito summon foxes, and constantly mention that the bijuu were _created _by the Sage, without making as much use of all three plot points as I can… right? I mean, my writing style is pretty much defined as “if you think that detail is insignificant, just wait.” 
> 
> That, by the way, also applies to my chapter titles. :> 
> 
> I hope that you’re all having as much fun reading as I am writing. _Especially_ if you’re rereading the whole fic.


	19. the spokes of the spinning wheel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings: **An unexpected POV. Or maybe not so unexpected, because I have been building up his importance throughout the entirety of Arc 2 and especially in the last few chapters.
> 
> More relevantly, though: explicit depictions of grievous injury (nearly to the point of major character death), catatonia, and mental breakdowns. It has been a very intense few weeks for these characters, it keeps on getting worse, and they’re _all_ feeling it.

The fur beneath him was softer than freshly-dried goose down, every strand sliding smooth through careful fingers. The tips caught the slices of sunlight streaming through the canopy overhead, shimmering like silver needles that soothed instead of pierce. The body underneath the heavy coat of fur was warm, and not even Touka’s back had felt so solid beneath his thighs.

“You seem to understand the appropriate reverence to show for the privilege you’ve been given, kit.”

Tamamo-no-Mae’s voice rumbled through her body, and the mirth threading through her words warmed the air around Hikaku’s. It was nearly enough to make him forget the constant phantom pains that shot up from the space below his knees where his legs had once been.

“It will be a fool to not understand how grand this vantage point is, Tamamo-no-Mae-sama,” Hikaku replied, his own voice no louder than a murmur. “And I have never been much of one.”

“Most of humans are, Hikaku of the Uchiha,” Tamamo-no-Mae said. Hikaku blinked at the term of address – it was the first time she had ever said his name – before he brushed it away to be considered later. “And I daresay that you are one, too, for you plan to walk into this battle even though you are so grievously injured.”

“Prideful,” Hikaku corrected, keeping his tone mild so as to not offend. “My clansmen do not know the existence of my wounds; therefore, I still hold the position of the third-highest ranking shinobi of the clan. In the absence of our clan head and heir, I am the one tasked with their protection.” His eyes slid downwards. “Alongside Mito-sama, of course.”

“I am flattered that you trust me so,” Mito said, voice floating up to him from where she was standing on the forest floor.

“Madara-sama has his faults,” Hikaku said, “but rare does he allow others to touch what he holds dear, much less place it in their hands. The fact that he does so speaks well enough of you, Mito-sama, that I will gladly obey your dictates as acting clan head.”

“This unworthy woman is honoured,” Mito returned, the slight deepening of her voice telling Hikaku that she had bowed. “And she hopes that Hikaku-san will not regret his decision to do so.”

“Should you not hope,” Hikaku said, amused despite the circumstances, “that it is Madara-sama who has made the correct choice?” 

There was a shift of the air that told Hikaku that Mito planned to speak, but before she could say a word, another voice, deeper and a little hoarse, rang through the air:

“For the sake of the gods who reside in the heavens and all those who live in the mountains and rivers,” Touka said, muffled as if she was speaking from behind her hand, “are all of you _done_? Didn’t we start off panicking about how close we are to being attacked?”

Tamamo-no-Mae laughed, throwing her head so suddenly that Hikaku had to lean back on his hands so that he would not smash his head against the back of hers. “Impatient as always, Touka-kun.”

“Forgive me for being worried that we’re going to be overrun if we keep standing around having polite little _chats_,” Touka drawled. Sliding his eyes to the side, Hikaku could see the metallic gleam of her naginata’s blade peeking out from beneath the heavy branches of one particular tree. “Especially since I’m not sure why we’re talking when we can be fighting.”

“Have you forgotten that you’re now my apprentice, Touka-kun?” Mito said, voice sweet in a way that threatened to make Hikaku’s shoulders tremble with laughter. “Perhaps I should drag you down for an impromptu quiz about the importance of the past few minutes of conversation.” 

“Maybe after we’ve destroyed the incoming threat,” Touka said. “Come on, Mito. Remove your seal already.”

Her _seal_? Hikaku blinked. Before he could ask, however, Mito let out a soft titter before the air around them seemed to _shudder_. Nothing else happened: no light shows, no whipping wind, and Hikaku had a moment to wonder what was the point before—

A roar ripped through the forest. The few birds that had stubbornly lingered lost their courage immediately, taking flight and turning into black ink splatters across the clear blue skies. Hikaku turned his head to follow their trajectory, and his breath hitched in his throat when he saw _it_.

The chakra beast resembled a campfire made flesh and given the shape of a fox: unreasonably large, its rearing head crested over the trees’ canopies, and its nine whipping tails rose high enough to smash into the fleeing birds, sending them crashing down. Tiny, panicked chirps rang out as those poor creatures were slammed into branches, dying before their feathers could even brush the blanket of dead leaves that covered the forest floor.

It was clearly horrifying and deadly. Yet each fall of light upon its coat made it shine with shades of orange and red and yellow, and the tips of its magnificent tails refracted light, shining like sunlight caught in crystal. 

There was a saying by the Uchiha whose blood had given the clan the Sharingan: even the most monstrous had their moments of beauty. Hikaku wondered if Indra’s saying had been inspired by the sight of this chakra beast. He did not know: none of the memories of the past generations of record-keepers had given the impetus for the remark.

Indra himself was nigh a complete mystery to his descendants, far more than any other Uchiha had or could be.

Letting out a long breath, Hikaku centred his mind back to the present – his racing heart had already slowed, and he no longer needed the comfort of the past centuries to settle himself. 

“He definitely felt me,” Tamamo-no-Mae was saying, the smugness of her voice washing over Hikaku’s body. “And he’s just as displeased by my presence as I am by his _existence_.”

“Please remember, Tamamo-no-Mae-sama,” Mito murmured, barely loud enough for Hikaku to hear her. “I owe him a debt, and I wish to repay it.”

Tossing her head back, Tamamo-no-Mae snorted. “I will do my best to kill him and you know that, Mito-chan,” she said, tart. “You best hope that he has enough skill within that false-fox body of his to defend against me.” 

“Mito is awed by Tamamo-no-Mae’s prowess.”

Hikaku was an Uchiha shinobi, long-blooded and used to the battlefield. But none of the battles he had been in could prepare him for this: _this_, which seemed less like a battle between humans than a war waged between _gods_ who, for reasons Hikaku could not fully understand, seemed to do the bidding of humans.

Uzumaki Mito commanded the original fox spirit, the source of every single story and myth about foxes. The Sharingan had the power to force a chakra beast like this to do its bidding. 

There had been whispers among the clan that this peace and village would lead to nothing but war on a grander scale than anyone had ever seen. Hikaku had not believed in them and still did not, but he wondered—

What was _he_ doing here, seated so high above that the skies seemed close enough to touch, when he had always prided himself for having his feet firmly on the ground?

(At least he didn’t have legs which he could use to run away and disgrace his entire clan.)

“Hold on tight, kit,” Tamamo-no-Mae said, jarring him out of his thoughts. Hikaku barely had the time to clench his hands into her fur before she leapt forward, a sharp cry tearing out of her throat that mixed with the echoes of the chakra beast’s screeching roar in his ears until he was dizzied by the sheer noise.

As the distance between the two great foxes lessened, both of them lowered their heads as they circled each other. Every step they took and every movement of their tails rustled against leaves and snapped branches off trunks. Heavy wood thudded onto the forest floor, giant _booms _adding to the cacophony of the shrieks of panicked animals trying to escape the sudden battlefield. 

At the corner of his eye, black hair flashed as Touka leapt from tree to tree. Hikaku gritted his teeth, giving up on calming the thundering of his heart and allowing it to switch his Sharingan on instead. The world was sudden awash with red, the edges sharpening. Now, Mito’s plan had given him one task and one alone—

There! On top of the chakra beast’s back were four figures. He had looked upon Hiuchi, Choukai and Ryuuon with his Sharingan turned on before, so he could recognise them by their chakra coils. But there was something strange about them, as if those coils were _twisted _somehow— no, Hikaku realised, horrified. Not twisted, but _mutated_, a foreign presence having sunk so deep within them that the coils themselves had… 

When he was eleven or so, before his Sharingan had awakened and he was still trying to decide what kind of shinobi he was going to be, he had spent some time with the medics. They had shown him how wounds infected with gangrene and burns caused by lightning chakra looked like: pale skin and red flesh threaded through with black streaks that smelled of rot or seared meat. When his Sharingan awakened and he proved himself to be more than capable enough to become one of the records-keeper of the clans, he had sat next to dying shinobi to record their last words, and his Sharingan had shown how overextending one’s reserves could cause the coils to turn against themselves, narrowing and expanding at random points until the tiny tubes burst from the strain.

This, Hikaku thought, was worse than gangrene, burns, and coil deterioration put together.

Because the creature’s presence had _sunk_ into them. Hikaku could see the tenketsu points on the neck, black like rotting flesh, and how the invasive chakra had hacked a path up to the brain. Hikaku’s Sharingan memorised perfectly how the creature’s chakra had spread entirely over the surface of the brain, black and thrumming with every beat of those aged hearts, and, worse still—

The creature’s presence was strongest behind their eyes. Their activated Sharingans were still the colour of freshly-spilled blood, but it was surrounded by darkness that writhed and moved as if it was _alive_.

He swallowed. Well, the good part of this was that he knew _exactly_ how to identify those who had been infected by the creature, now. Even if the Sharingan did not ensure perfect memory, he didn’t think he would – or even _could_ – forget.

Taking a deep breath, he lowered his head instinctively as one of the chakra beast’s tails swept in his direction. At the same time, Tamamo-no-Mae’s tails tried to shove the three Uchiha elders _and_ the creature possessing them away from the chakra beast’s back. That had been Mito’s plan: she would wait on the floor and Touka in the trees, and the moment that any of the Uchiha had fallen off, they would drag them to Hikaku. 

But— Hikaku reared back.

“Touka-san!” He yelled. “_Touka-san_!”

Wind whipped around them. A long black tail, barely kept back by a plain hemp cord, waved in front of his face before Touka folded in front of him. “What is it?” she asked.

“The creature has torn off parts of itself,” Hikaku said, keeping his eyes on the small figures in front of him because he knew that Touka would not be offended that he was not looking at her. “It’s using those parts to hold the Ryuuon and the others onto the beast’s back.”

“Which means we can’t get them off,” Touka said. Even with the din around them, he could hear the frown in her voice.

“That’s not the worst part,” Hikaku said. “The beast’s chakra is fighting against the creature’s, but it’s not working.” His brows creased as he tried to focus on that particular spot, while Tamamo-no-Mae thrashed and snarled beneath him, without being distracted by the sheer horror of the creature being able to hold off chakra as strong and corrosive as the beast’s. “He’s… likely angrier over that than he is over Tamamo-no-Mae-sama’s presence.” 

“Hn!” Tamamo-no-Mae’s voice rang out below the two of them. “I will _show_ him that he should be far more concerned about me than he is about some _creature_!”

“Of course he should, Tamamo-no-Mae-sama,” Hikaku murmured distractedly. “Touka-san, we can’t wait for them to fall off. I must—”

“You have to get over there,” Touka finished for him. When Hikaku jerked his head towards her, startled that she could read his mind so easily, she met his Sharingan squarely and lifted one shoulder. “That’s obvious enough, Hikaku. You don’t need to say any more.”

Then, making a strange move that made the naginata in her hand disappear into her hair, Touka sank down onto her knees. Despite the constant rocking of Tamamo-no-Mae beneath them, her movements were fluid and her body steady. “Come on then, Hikaku,” she said. “Get on my back. I’ll get you over there.”

“But you’ll be unarmed!” Hikaku protested, raising his voice without really meaning to. “You’ll be—”

“That just means that you’ll have to do it quickly,” Touka cut him off, one side of her mouth curving up into a crooked smile. “You’ll have to be fast enough that there’s no chance that they can attack me, yeah?”

He couldn’t guarantee that. Hikaku wasn’t even sure that he would be able to challenge all three of their Sharingan _and_ break the genjutsu – it had to be a genjutsu – placed on the chakra beast even if she helped him get over there. But—

What other choice did they have? Even with Tamamo-no-Mae’s best efforts, she was being forced back. Every second of hesitation was another metre that the battle got closer to the village, another percentage rising of both shinobi and civilian dying under the weight of monstrous gods falling upon them. 

There was Mito’s barrier, of course, but— so what? The Uchiha elders were right _there, _the uchiwa fans stark on their dark blue haoris, and if the Senju saw it then the peace agreement would fall into pieces. Once that happened, Madara would go mad, and start to resemble what Tajima had been like right before he took that suicide mission because the guilt of sending Uchiha shinobi out to kill Senju children had eaten him up from inside so much that his body had started to fail. Everything that they were so close to making into reality would all go up into smoke as their clans went back to warring against each other.

How many more would die, then? How many more lives would Hikaku have to contain within himself, keeping them alive with the flames of his Sharingan that were fuelled by his own breaths? His mind was already so full of the dead, centuries of them, and there were so many who were so _young_, who had barely lived before they had been cut down. Tajima’s eldest sons lived in Hikaku’s head, too, as second-hand memories from the previous record-keepers; out of the three, Kurohiko had been the eldest when he died at _fourteen, _and that was—

Hikaku had been twelve when he had first stepped upon the battlefield. He was eighteen now, and he still lived. He was one of the luckier ones.

There were Uchiha who had known nothing but war; Uchiha who _wanted_ nothing but war, for their minds were filled with so much grief that only vengeance could ease them. But Hikaku’s heart was stuffed too full of the regrets of the dead, of every life that had never been lived out in full, and he—

He wanted nothing more than to never have to record the death of a clansman younger than himself. Nothing more than to never have to scavenge for enough memories of them among those who loved them to fill the seven days of mourning, because they hadn’t had a chance to live long enough to _make_ enough memories.

Turning his body, he gritted his teeth. His kneecaps dug into Tamamo-no-Mae’s fur before he flung himself forward, wrapping his arms around Touka’s neck. Her hands caught his thighs immediately, settling them on her hips. Then, without another word, she bent her knees, and jumped with Tamamo-no-Mae’s next attack upon the chakra beast.

Wind howled in Hikaku’s ears, adding to the din surrounding the battlefield, but he was no longer paying attention. Touka had jumped from Tamamo-no-Mae’s back to one of the still-standing trees, and with every leap she got closer and closer to the four figures anchored upon the beast’s backs. Just a few more metres, Hikaku thought. A few more, then he could catch at least one pair of Sharingan eyes with his own and stop all this—

A hand grabbed onto his collar. A yelp tore out of Hikaku’s throat as he was thrown in the air. He twisted his body, trying to turn around to see what was happening, because Touka had never treated him so roughly, had never thrown him—

Time slowed.

Centimetre by centimetre, he watched as one of the chakra beast’s tails approach Touka. With perfect clarity, he watched as she closed her eyes. His Sharingan recorded in minute detail the moment when the tip of the tail brushed against her body and drew back. He watched a hole appear where flesh had once been as the tail pierced through her body; watched as it widened millimetre by millimetre as it went deeper and deeper until the tip exited through the back of her ribs.

Shards of bone and droplets of blood hovered in the air, gleaming in the sunlight like a sickening kaleidoscope, and captured perfectly in his memory for the next generations of Uchiha to witness.

He tumbled through the air and did not care, eyes fixed upon the tail slowly withdrawing from Touka’s body. It was slick with a red made more grotesque by the Sharingan. His back slammed against something solid, breath knocked out of his lungs, but he kept watching as more blood spilled over her paling lips. Pain shrieked up his spine from his useless legs, but he cared nothing for it, attention fixated by the sight of Touka’s body slowly, so slowly, curling inwards as she started to fall.

There was a hollow roar ringing in his ears. Pain exploded behind his eyes, nearly sharp enough to make him scream. Within his sockets, his Sharingan spun and spun. He felt and saw, as if outside himself, the fat tomoes twist and mutate into blades.

Hikaku flipped onto his front. Touka’s aim was, as always, perfect: he had landed on the beast’s back, right in front of the three elders and the creature controlling them. Hikaku met the three Sharingans turned towards him. He could follow the plan. He could save the lives of these men who had devoted their lives to serving the clan the best they could, no matter how misguided their attempts had been recently. But—

He couldn’t let her sacrifice go to waste, could he? If she died giving him this chance, then…

Taking a deep breath, Hikaku reached deep within himself. The boiling rage at the creature’s kidnapping and treatment of him, the twisting pain of his lost legs that never abated, the choking hopelessness of his future once he had found someone to take over his role as the head records-keeper… They were all terribly easy to find.

His vision flashed between black and red. Fire behind his eyes. Liquid flames seared down his cheeks. Fire in his throat. Hikaku smiled, and breathed out: 

“_Amaterasu_.”

Touka fell.

Mito’s body moved even before she realised it, bare feet – socks long torn off – running up one of Tamamo-no-Mae’s legs. The great fox growled a warning at her rudeness, but Mito couldn’t spare a moment for her as she formed chakra chains between her hands without even thinking, throwing them towards a thick branch. The chains caught and she swung forward, flying through the air with one arm stretched out.

Her hand smashed against Touka’s chest, right where blood was pouring out. The younger woman’s eyes were closed, face smeared with red, but her lungs still expanded with shallow, desperate breaths. Mito let go of the chain, free-falling as she slammed that hand onto the wound. A seal bloomed underneath her hand, ink stretching out and solidifying into threads that wrapped around Touka’s body. By the time Mito had formed another chain and swung close to another tree, Touka’s body had been completely cocooned within chakra threads.

They would keep Touka in a state akin to a coma. She would not be healed – she likely _could not_ be healed until Hashirama returned, or if one of the Uchiha medics had some miraculous ability that the Senju medics did not – but she would be _alive_.

At least, Mito hoped that she would be alive. A wound like this was usually instantaneously fatal, and it spoke well of Touka’s willpower that she continued fighting to live even after her body had fallen unconscious from the shock of being so impaled.

Screams. 

For a moment, Mito wondered if it was her own voice. No, it was— _they_ were too deep. This was—

Gathering Touka in both arms, Mito flung herself in the air again. This time, she landed on Tamomo-no-Mae’s back. Carefully, she laid Touka down on the softest patch of fur she could find before she turned towards the source of those horrid screeches.

The first thing she saw was black. Patches of darkness coalescing upon the chakra beast’s back, flickering like fire, like _Amaterasu_, but only Madara and Izuna had the Mangekyou— that was Hikaku, recognisable by the stumps of his legs below the knee, and in front of him were…

These had once been the three Uchiha shinobi, Mito guessed. Except— Whoever those shinobi had been, they were surely dead, because their bodies were slumped over and the only thing keeping them somewhat upright was the strange, liquid darkness seeping out from their emptied eye sockets, pouring from their mouths, and dripping from their hair.

No, it wasn’t liquid at all. Liquid didn’t, couldn’t, _writhe _like this. Mito was viscerally reminded of the thrashing of landed fish, or even the gelatinous feel of freshly-caught sea cucumbers. Except none of those could explain how the black _things _squirmed, tying themselves together to form knots, then tubes, then threads, and all of them seemed to have a mind of their own as they struggled to escape the black fire. 

Mito tore her eyes away, and landed on Hikaku. The Uchiha’s gaze was Sharingan-red and unblinking, and it was fixed upon what had once been three of his clan elders— no, not only on them, because there was a _fourth _figure, a little distance away from the dead-or-dying men. That had to be the creature that had caused all of this, and it was close to falling off the chakra beast’s back, nearly escaping— then Hikaku’s Amaterasu _roared, _the flames shooting out and wrapping around the creature, and—

She had never known that Uchiha flames could shape themselves into hands, and behave like them.

Screams rang out again. This time, they sounded like nothing that could come from a human throat. Mito swallowed hard as poison-yellow eyes blinked open within the tube-threads still pouring from the three dead Uchiha, from the creature— and it wasn’t a single pair, but tens of them, hundreds, each patch of black gleaming with yellow before shifting to the white of teeth. The thing _shrieked _as Hikaku’s Amaterasu chased it down, the flames terrifyingly strong and relentless as they devoured every eye and wriggling thread that tried to escape.

There was blood pouring from Hikaku’s eyes, red streaking from his newborn Mangekyou down his death-pale cheeks.

Moments ago, Mito had wondered if the rumours of the Uchiha clan’s emotional and mental instability were true. Now… her breath hitched.

Hikaku had been the most poised out of all of his clan she had interacted with. He had kept his composure and joked around and agreed rationally to fight even after – she guessed – the horrifying experiences he had suffered after being stolen by the creature. There was no way the Uchiha could be _that _unstable, Mito had thought, because Hikaku clearly had the Sharingan but he had kept his sanity so remarkably well. 

Now… Now, she—

She tore her eyes away. Her gaze landed immediately on the chakra beast, and she blinked. He had his head down, panting, and if she had any doubts that he had been controlled by the three Uchiha shinobi’s Sharingan and the black creature, they had entirely disappeared.

Because he looked confused. Like he had no idea whatsoever why he had ended up here.

Placing a hand on the cocoon that was Touka to check that she was in no danger of falling off Tamamo-no-Mae’s back, Mito crawled forward on her knees and elbows until she reached a pointed, twitching ear.

“Tamamo-no-Mae-sama,” she murmured, “may I speak to him?” 

“What need have you to ask my permission for your own actions?” the fox spirit asked, her voice more rumble than sound. “You have always done what you wish, and I have always agreed with your actions and words.” 

Turning her head so she stroked her cheek over the curve of the ear, Mito exhaled, long and slow. “Your constant support is a source of strength,” she whispered, “and I ask for a reason, Tamamo-no-Mae-sama.” She swallowed hard. “One that I am sure you have already guessed.”

Tamamo-no-Mae didn’t speak for long moments. Then, she snorted. “I must warn you, Mito-chan,” she said, loud enough now for her voice to echo through the surely-emptied forest, “he makes for a terrible conversationalist. An arrogant bastard if I’ve ever met one.”

Mito looked at the great beast in front of her. She had guessed that he could speak, so that fact didn’t surprise her. But she had not expected that Tamamo-no-Mae’s dislike of him came not merely from _what_ he was, but also because of his personality.

She had not expected him to _have_ a personality.

“Takes one to know one.”

That low rumbling voice. Mito’s head jerked up. Her wide eyes immediately met huge _red_ ones, the shade just one off the Sharingan. 

Her lips parted, and nothing came out.

“Been a while since someone’s had the guts to get a fox contract.” That was definitely the beast’s voice. And he sounded _calm _despite all that he had just gone through, all that he had been forced to do. Which meant that… he wasn’t a beast, was he? Beasts didn’t have rationality, didn’t have the wherewithal to understand who or what to blame for their pain. “We aren’t the most obliging of creatures.”

“Like you can talk about the nature of foxes,” Tamamo-no-Mae sniffed from below Mito. “You’re nothing but an imposter.”

“No one’s talking to you, bitch,” the huge chakra— _fox-shaped person _said, lips drawing back to reveal his fangs. “I was talking to your summoner.”

“Why you—” Tamamo-no-Mae started, but thankfully subsided when Mito placed a hand on the top of her head.

“Please, Tamamo-no-Mae-sama,” she murmured. “Will you allow me to speak to him alone?”

“With _him_?” the fox spirit yelped. “But Mito-chan—”

“There is a great deal that I have to ask him, and even more that I have to tell,” Mito said. “Please, Tamamo-no-Mae-sama. Please indulge your Mito-chan just this once.”

Another long silence. Mito carefully kept her gaze on the chakra— _fox_ in front of her, meeting his great red eyes, even as she stroked her hand slowly over Tamamo-no-Mae’s fur.

Then, a white tail wrapped around her waist. Before she could say a word, she could see another one of them curl around Touka’s cocooned body, so Mito clicked her mouth shut and stretched out her arms. After Tamamo-no-Mae urged her to sit on the tail curled around her and seated Touka into her lap, Mito sent chakra to her thighs, sticking herself to the great fox spirit as she lifted them both to a heavy branch of a nearby tree. 

A quiet _pop_, and Tamamo-no-Mae vanished. Mito let her eyes fall shut for just a moment, focusing on Touka’s shallow, barely-there breaths against her own throat.

“If your next words are not to get this annoying flea off my back,” the great chakra fox rumbled, “I have no interest in listening.”

Mito peeled her eyes back open. She was exhausted – which was strange, for she had barely done anything during the battle – but it was simple enough to meet those great red eyes. “Forgive me, Tenko-sama, but my hands are currently full.”

Snorting, he tossed back his head. “That’s a hell of a title you’ve just given me, human kit.” His lips stretched back into a grin that bared his sharp fangs. “I like it.”

He liked flattery, Mito noted; that certainly made things easier. Still, she was amused: what title could she use for him other _great celestial fox_, after all? Especially since she had no idea what he truly was, and needed to convince him to leave the village alone? 

“Give her to me,” the tenko said. “I have no skill with healing, but I can put her on the ground while you deal with the flea on my back.”

Mito found her arms clutching around Touka’s cocoon before she could stop them. She took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “She is very important to me, Tenko-sama.”

“I’m not going to eat her,” he snorted. “Humans taste disgusting.” Doubt must have shown on Mito’s face, because he tossed his head back again, clearly impatient. “Come now, summoner of Tamamo-no-Mae. You think I haven’t figured out that it was me who made her that way?” His snout turned downwards, and he made a sound that was almost like a growl. “And that it was you, that girl, and the flea on my back that got rid of the things that dared to control me?”

_Oh_. So, he thought he owed _her_ – well, the three of them – a debt as well.

Looking at him for a long moment, Mito considered her options. It would certainly be a gamble with Touka’s life at stake to trust him. Mito had never been one for gambling – that was more of Hashirama’s habit, especially whenever he found himself in a city – but in truth…

She didn’t have any other option.

“Alright,” Mito said. Cautiously, she gathered Touka into her arms – one around the shoulders, one beneath the knees – and held her out as much as she could without jarring herself. “I shall trust you, Tenko-sama.”

He made that low, snorting noise again. One of his tails approached – Hikaku, still motionless on his back, seemed to twitch at the sight, but did not move otherwise – and wrapped around Touka’s form. Mito tried to not let her reluctance go as she let go, and watched with her heart in her throat as the tail wrapped around her, and slowly lowered her down…

Not only to the floor, but with her back leaning against the same tree that Mito was sitting in. He even used the tip of his tail to tap the top of her cocooned head. She resisted the urge to dig her knuckles into her eyes and start screaming.

_Calm_. She had to stay calm.

“The flea,” the tenko said, impatience ringing clear in his voice.

Nodding, Mito stood, and then bent her knees. She crossed the distance between the tree and the great fox’s back with a single leap, landing beside Hikaku. He was still staring straight ahead, and she followed his gaze.

What had once been three men was now nothing but husks and bits of ash that scattered with each breeze and every breath the great fox took. A puddle of black slime surrounded it, unmoving. If Mito had to venture a guess, she would say that the creature was definitely dead.

But Amaterasu still burned. There was nothing to feed the black flames, but they still flickered over the husks and skittered over the slime. Even from here, Mito could feel their scorching heat.

She swallowed. Folding her legs, she sat down. “Hikaku-san,” she called softly. “They are all gone. Please stop.”

He did not reply. He did not even move.

“Hikaku-san,” she tried again. “Please.” Nothing. “You have to get off Tenko-sama’s back, at least—” The words were lost as she swallowed back a yelp.

A massive, ghostly arm had appeared, stretching out from Hikaku’s chest towards the things in front of him. It was made entirely of bone, and incomplete: some of the tiny bones of the hand was missing, and in their place was purplish-blue smoke that moved like candleflame along the breeze. As Mito watched, lips parted, the huge hand _scooped_ up the remnants of Hikaku’s quarry. The fingers closed into a fist.

Hikaku still did not speak.

Closing her eyes, Mito let out a long breath. Then she moved over and, carefully, rested an arm on Hikaku’s shoulders. She slipped the other beneath his knees – doing her best to not even brush over the stumps of his legs – before she stood up.

He laid in her arms like a doll with the massive arm still extended from his chest. The drying blood on his cheeks made his face resemble a poorly-made, macabre kabuki mask. When Mito shifted her hands so she could press a finger over his neck, his pulse was so slow that it felt like he was asleep.

(Once, a Senju shinobi had been dragged back from the battlefield on the shoulders of two of his cousins. His eyes had been blank, his body motionless, and Mito had heard whispers of _Tsukiyomi. _For the few days more that the shinobi had managed to live, she had managed to piece together that Izuna had caught the man in a genjutsu; one so strong that it was impossible break out of, and it had lasted for days. For the man himself, Mito had heard, it would feel like it was lasting for years, or even decades.

Hashirama had used that as an excuse to avoid battles and skirmishes with the Uchiha whenever Tobirama was away in Uzushio. No one, Hashirama had told the clan solemnly, could match up to Madara and Izuna’s Mangekyou except for the two brothers of the Senju main house, and as clan head, Hashirama could not condone the avoidable loss of lives.)

Hikaku was an Uchiha. Mito swallowed back another rising scream before she readied herself. But before she could jump, something soft but solid wrapped around her waist.

“If you or the flea dies, Tamamo-no-Mae will not leave me alone for centuries,” the tenko said, sounding like he was grumbling. “And I had _just_ managed to find some semblance of peace.”

She should really ask about the relationship between her head summons and this huge fox that she had named a tenko but knew wasn’t one. But Mito could not get her throat to work beyond a whispered, “Thank you,” as she was set down on the forest floor close to Touka’s cocooned body.

The ghostly arm – part of Susano’o, the analytical part of her mind supplied – set down the ash and slime that remained of what was used to control the tenko. As Mito placed Hikaku close to Touka, she could feel the weight of the great fox’s gaze on it.

“Hah,” he said, sounding surprised and, oddly enough, contemplative. “Good riddance to bad rubbish, I guess.”

Grass crackled as Hikaku’s Amaterasu roared back to life. Mito should get him to stop, but her hands were starting to numb and her mind was slowing to an unacceptable degree. She turned to face the tenko instead—

And found that she could only see his tails, for he had turned away.

“Wait!” 

He stopped. “What is it, summoner of Tamamo-no-Mae?” he asked. “Are you going to invite me in for _tea_?” The mockery in his voice was clear.

“We are trying to build a village,” Mito said, scrambling for words because it was so unexpected that she _didn’t_ have to convince him to not attack them. “It is very close—”

“Do you think I don’t know what all of you are doing?” The great fox interrupted. “You humans are so loud that I can hear you even all the way up north.” His tails swayed through the air, resembling river reeds caught in a sudden gust of wind, as his low snort rang through the air. “Make your wars. Make your village. Whatever you do, it has nothing to do with me.”

“Are you not—” she swallowed hard. “Thank you for your mercy, Tenko-sama!” She dropped into a low bow.

“Mercy?” His laughter was loud enough to make what few trees that remained standing shake. “You are surely not so foolish as to believe that, summoner of Tamamo-no-Mae.” His massive head turned, and Mito’s breath hitched as a pair of red eyes suddenly fixed upon her.

“Humans controlled me. Humans broke the control and destroyed those who impugned on my dignity,” he said. “Therefore, nothing happened here.” 

It mattered nothing to him that there were two different groups of humans who had acted. It didn’t matter _how _they had done so, much less _why. _He likely didn’t care that the thing that instigated this wasn’t a human, at all. 

_Tenko_, Mito had impulsively called him, pulling the first polite-sounding title she could out of her mind that might gain his favour. But it seemed that she had chosen the perfect term.

After living for a thousand years, celestial foxes gained their ninth tail and ascended to the heavens. Every legend stated that they usually _stayed_ there – those like Tamamo-no-Mae, who remained in the mortal realm were rare – and stopped caring about the affairs of the inferior beings from the world below. 

Tamamo-no-Mae had called him a _fake_; had said that he wasn’t a real fox spirit at all. That was most likely true – she wasn’t a liar, especially not to Mito – but he certainly _behaved_ exactly like a typical tenko of lore.

Knowing that, it was easy for Mito to bend her knees. She laid her hands on the blanket of leaves in front of her, and pressed her forehead on the diamond it formed. “Uzumaki Mito, matriarch of the Senju clan of the shinobi village of the Land of Fire,” she said, enunciating every word as clearly as she could, “bids Tenko-sama farewell, and promises she will do her best to ensure that he will have the peace he seeks.”

A sharp laugh burst out of him. “You have a way with words, Uzumaki Mito,” he drawled. Then, without another word, he walked away. 

Mito kept her head down until his footsteps had stopped making the ground shake. Then she straightened, eyes still closed as she tried to keep her breathing steady.

She could still smell burning leaves.

Footsteps. Human ones, this time. Mito stayed kneeling on the ground, unable to convince her body to stand, but she managed to force her eyes open.

Tsurugi and Shiomi approached. Both of them headed straight to Hikaku, and Tsurugi dropped down on one knee directly in front of him. The ghostly Susano’o arm went _through_ the civilian’s body, but he didn’t even seem to notice as he gripped Hikaku’s chin with one hand and _jerked_ his head up until those spinning Mangekyou pinwheels were staring into his own black eyes.

“Third-ranked of the Uchiha clan,” Tsurugi said, his voice deep and commanding in a way Mito had never heard any Uchiha but Madara sound, “head of record-keepers. Hikaku, burdened with a thousand years of memories. Hikaku, who carries upon thin shoulders a three hundred generations of lives.”

“Hikaku the Suffering, Hikaku the Strong,” Shiomi continued, coming to stand beside Hikaku. Her hands landed on his shoulders. “Hikaku the Unbreaking.” Her fingers curved inwards, resting over his windpipe. “Hikaku the Brother, Hikaku the Son. Hikaku, Beloved.”

“Come back to us,” they said together. “Turn your face from the dead, Hikaku. The Uchiha who still live call for you.” 

More blood streaked down Hikaku’s cheeks. Shiomi seemed entirely unperturbed, wiping her thumb over the curve of those high, sharp bones. Hikaku’s lips started to tremble with her touch, and his shoulders shuddered just once before—

A low keening noise burst out of him. The ghostly arm collapsed into nothingness. Black fire sputtered out. Hikaku’s eyes stayed wide open, unblinking, but his body fell forward as if the strings holding him steady had been cut. Tsurugi caught him easily, wrapping one arm around Hikaku’s shoulders. Then, with a fluid grace that suggested that he had done this time a dozen times before, he slipped his other arm below Hikaku’s knees and stood while lifting him. 

Then both Tsurugi and Shiomi turned towards her. Mito blinked.

“We will take care of him,” Tsurugi said. “Please do not worry, Mito-sama.”

She nodded. Her lips parted, but no sound escaped.

Shiomi came forward. Mito’s gaze followed her, and her head tipped back as the older woman come to a stop right in front of her. It took everything she had to not shiver when soft hands caressed her cheeks.

“It’s alright now, Mito-sama,” Shiomi murmured, voice quiet and warm like a mother’s. “It’s alright.”

Without really knowing why, Mito’s hand slipped into her sleeve. She drew out the fan still resting within, and handed it over. She watched, mind dull and empty, as Shiomi took it with both hands and bowed her head.

Then the Uchiha left.

Mito’s eyes went to the pile of ash left on the ground. The slime was entirely gone, consumed by Hikaku’s Amaterasu. There was nothing left there to check, nothing she could use to—

Touka, still cocooned, still leaning against the tree trunk. Mito’s exhale tore against the insides of her own throat. She tried to stand, but her legs did not work. So, she crawled over instead. 

Her fingers traced over the outline of Touka’s nose and cheeks where they were hidden beneath the forbidden seal keeping her alive. Her fingers trembled when no air ghosted across her skin, and Touka’s chest remained completely and utterly still. 

That was right, because— within the cocoon, time itself stopped.

_Little brother_, her own voice echoed in her head, _what are the two rules of sealing?_ Mito swallowed back her hysterical laughter, washing her throat with the bitterness of her tears. 

This was but a temporary solution. She had torn apart the rules of sealing she had always followed and made herself into an utter hypocrite who no longer had the right to scold Tobirama for any of his experiments, and she had done it on a gamble that she wasn’t even sure would _work_. 

She pressed her lips to the edge of Touka’s temple. Nothing beat against her skin. Something hot and alien started searing down her cheeks. 

“Little sister,” she whispered. “Stay alive, little sister. Stay alive.”

Touka did not move. Touka did not breathe. Mito squeezed her eyes shut. A hand slammed against the tree.

“Hashirama,” she gasped, knowing her husband could not hear her but unable to stop herself. “Hurry back. Come back, come back, come back—” She clutched Touka close to her, knowing that it did not help and might even worsen Touka’s wounds but she could not help herself, could not—

“Come back.” She heard her own voice beg uselessly. “Please, come back, please, I can’t—” She dragged in air. It burned in her lungs, filled with smoke.

“Please, Hashirama, come back.”. Pain sparked under her nails as she clawed at the tree’s bark.

“Hashirama, please.” She was crying. It had been years since she cried. “I can’t do this alone. I— I—” Roots dug into her knees. Touka’s unmoving chest against her cheek. The pounding of her own heart in her ears.

“_I’m scared_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even the strongest of people have their moments of vulnerability and need. And have I mentioned how much I really hate the Strong Female Character™ trope yet?


	20. the weight of a thousand years

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings: **Canon-typical violence. Which means that mass murder occurs and is portrayed through the POV of a character who simply doesn’t give a shit about the people dying in droves around him.

“The air snaps, the grass chokes, and roots can find no bearing.”

Madara hated to admit it, but Mito was right: there was no other way for him and Hashirama to find Yamagakure except by using Hashirama’s mokuton to ask the trees. And when he did, he became... Well, Madara shifted his gaze to stare at his friend.

Hashirama’s eyes were fixed upon the nothingness above Madara’s head. His hands were raised to chest level, twitching through a series of gestures that resembled no hand seal or battlefield sign that Madara had ever seen, much less could read. 

(His dislike had nothing to do with her being a woman or not – though in Madara’s opinion, she was less a woman than some legendary fox spirit given human form – but because Hashirama was nearly impossible to deal with like this. Gods above, Madara was a shinobi, not a poet. Hashirama was a shinobi, too, so where the hell was he pulling all of these metaphors from?) 

“What,” he gritted out, giving his most valiant effort to keep his eyebrow from twitching, “the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Blinking, Hashirama shook his head hard enough that Madara had to lean back so those long strands wouldn’t smack him in the face. “I’ve told you before, Madara,” he said, smiling widely enough that Madara was very tempted to punch it off his face. “I usually get Mito to translate for me.”

On Madara’s other side, Kazuyuki gave a low snort. “Once again,” the massive snow leopard drawled, “I am disappointed that my summoner’s husband is not the well-educated gentleman that he _should_ be.”

“Yeah, and you have been _so _much help so far,” Madara snapped back at him, rolling his eyes. “Don’t your hundred-or-something years of existence have _something_ to help with the cryptic shit that Hashirama’s plants keep giving us?”

Jerking his head to the side, Kazuyuki let out a loud huff. Behind them, guarding their backs from any Lightning shinobi who might be passing by, Mifuyu made a sound that might be a snicker if not for her dignified bearing. Madara decided, once again, that he liked her a _lot_ more than he did Kazuyuki.

He needed to stop getting distracted. Madara looked around. If the past weeks of travelling with Hashirama had taught him anything about the other man’s abilities, it had two limits: one, Hashirama could only control plants (apparently mushrooms weren’t plants, which was a hell of a surprise), and two, his control was limited by the range of what he could _see_.

“Move over,” he elbowed Hashirama in the chest. When he obligingly did, Madara took his place, and scanned their surroundings.

They were at the outskirts of the Land of Lightning, far enough from the capital that the area could be considered the backwaters, and far away from the border it shared with the Land of Water that it was peaceful enough to seem that nothing ever happened here. An impression that wasn’t helped by the fact that the scattered settlements in their vicinity were all tiny villages cloistered at the bottom of the mountains that were so numerous in this region that there were practically no flatlands to be found. 

Which, Madara supposed, might explain why the people here were so desperate and power-hungry. Unlike the Land of Fire that had valleys and deltas aplenty for fields, the civilians of Lightning literally had to carve up the mountains if they wanted land that they could use to plant rice.

Wait a damned minute. Madara blinked. “Mifuyu,” he said slowly. “Can you please repeat what Hashirama just said?” 

Unlike Kazuyuki, who would immediately protest, Mifuyu obliged, “The air snaps, the grass—”

“There,” Madara pointed. “The village is on the peak of the tallest mountain of this entire range.”

Three heads turned immediately to face that direction. Hashirama’s head whirled around, peering at Madara’s face, and Madara absentmindedly smashed his palm against his nose to get him the hell _away_. 

“Ow!” Hashirama yelped. “Madara, you have your Sharingan on! You’re not supposed to have your Sharingan on!”

Madara regretted the _hell_ out of mentioning to Hashirama _once_ that Tobirama told him to not overuse his Sharingan before they could meet up again. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Because we’re getting closer to Tobirama. He’s over there.”

“How are you so sure?” Kazuyuki asked, voice snide.

“Look at that,” Madara said, not even bothering to look at the snow leopard, “Most mountains,” or, at least, those in the Land of Fire, “have forests covering them from base up to the cloud-line, but this one’s bare,” He stabbed the air in the mountain’s direction again. “The only reason for that would be that there is too little soil for plants to grow.

“Most of the mountains in this range are like that, though,” Mifuyu pointed out, scanning at the various ones throughout the range. “It might not be that particular mountain.”

“It might not,” Madara acknowledged, following her gaze. “But only the air up the highest of mountains is extremely cold, and,” he took a deep breath, “unlike most of the mountains here, the peak of that one is _way _past the cloud-line. But it is _not_ snow-capped.” 

“Uh, Madara,” Hashirama said, voice tentative. “You’re only one who can see that. All we see are clouds.”

Oh, right. _That_ was why he had turned on the Sharingan. “You just have to take my word that everything there is rock and there’s no snow, then,” he said.

“That makes no sense,” Kazuyuki complained. “I have _never_ heard of mountain peak past the cloud-line that is _not _covered in snow.” His fangs clicked together in displeasure. “If there are clouds, there is water, and it should be cold enough so high up that the water would form into snow or ice the moment it touches the rock. That’s basic _sense_.”

“An impossible mountain,” Mifuyu said, voice contemplative and sly both. 

Silence fell among the four of them for a long moment. Madara focused on the peak again. He _could _see beyond the clouds, _could_ see that it was only rock, but if that was where this supposed shinobi village was, then where were the buildings? Where were the people?

He gritted his teeth so he wouldn’t start yelling about how it should be impossible for there to be a genjutsu that could fool the Sharingan. 

“So,” Mifuyu finally broke the silence, “it seems that we’ve found Yamagakure.” 

“Village hidden among the mountains,” Hashirama murmured. Then he let out an incoherent sound, pointing. “Mountains! Village within the mountains!”

“Who the fuck,” Madara said, tipping his head up to stare at the sky, “gives their _hidden_ village a name that _literally _tells you where it is hidden?”

“In their defence,” Mifuyu said, sounding incredibly amused, “there are a great number of mountains around.” 

Another period of silence as the four of them stared at that _one _specific mountain.

“Kazuyuki,” Mifuyu said, turning to her fellow summon. “Take Hashirama. Leave Madara to me.”

Madara didn’t even have a moment to relish in the idea that Mifuyu had just volunteered, on her own accord, to carry him on his back before Kazuyuki started snarling. “No!” He bared his fangs at Mifuyu. “I _refuse_ to carry anyone who is not our summoner. And besides, that husband of his is _not_ worthy of being—”

“Our summoner is in danger,” Mifuyu growled back, fangs gleaming as she pushed back against the smaller summon. “And do not forget, Kazuyuki. You are under my charge, and though I have indulged you since you were a kit—”

Ignoring the two great cats’ argument, Madara turned to look at Hashirama. “Hey,” he elbowed his friend in the ribs. “Don’t start drifting off on us.” 

Brown eyes snapped back to look at him, but the slightly-glassy look remained. “What?” Hashirama said. “I’m not—”

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” Madara cut him off, crossing his arms. “Your wife not only warned me about what can happen to you if you talk to plants, but made me promise to make sure that it didn’t happen. Remember?”

“For someone who keeps complaining about how I repeat things a lot, _you _keep telling me the same things over and over, Madara,” Hashirama said. He would sound like his usual teasing self if not for the fact that his eyes kept darting away from Madara, as if unwilling to meet his gaze. Or, worse still, as if he kept hearing and seeing things around them that Madara – and Kazuyuki and Mifuyu, for the matter – could not see.

“Hashirama,” Madara said, reaching out and grabbing his friend’s face with one hand. “I need you to focus. I have no idea what kind of condition we’ll find Tobirama in when we find him, but I doubt that he’ll be in top form. And I _cannot_ handle that along with you turning into a tree right in front of me.”

“I’m not going to turn into a tree,” Hashirama said, words garbled by the firm grip Madara had on his jaw. When Madara arched an eyebrow at him, he raised both of his hands, palms-up. “Okay, I promise to try my best to not turn into a tree.” 

He was _not_ letting Hashirama wriggle his way out of this. 

“There is no way,” Madara said, speaking slowly and enunciating every word carefully, “I can lug a tree on my way home. And given that I promised Mito that I will make sure that you come home…” 

“You’ll leave me behind?” Hashirama said, bottom lip starting to stick out. 

“No,” Madara said, slowly letting his lips curve up into a sharp smile. “I’ll have to leave _Tobirama _behind.” Hashirama’s eyes started to widen. “I didn’t promise anyone that I would bring Tobirama back,” which was a lie, but Hashirama didn’t know that, “so my honour would demand that I choose you over him.” He shook Hashirama’s head from side to side to emphasise the point.

Hashirama let out a shuddering breath. When Madara let go of his face, Hashirama pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. “You’re such a _bastard_.” He sounded almost admiring.

“I’m just figuring out how to deal with you,” Madara corrected. Which was, in all honesty, a meaner version of how he usually handled Izuna. Then, before Hashirama could reply and Madara’s mind could spiral down that particular train of thought, he whirled back to face the snow leopards. “Are the two of you done?”

Mifuyu had Kazuyuki on the ground, one of her front paws planted in his soft belly while the other had his face shoved to the side. “Yes,” she answered shortly. “He has seen enough sense to do as I said.” 

Nodding, Madara placed a hand on top of his own head and cracked his neck sharply to one side. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s go, then.”

“So, what’s the plan?” Kazuyuki asked, resentment coating every word even as he stayed still for Hashirama to climb on his back. “We run up there and start yelling for our summoner’s name?”

“There’s a genjutsu placed around the village,” Madara explained shortly, pulling out a heavy woollen scarf from his sealing scroll and tossing it over to Hashirama. “Even my Sharingan can’t see through it from here, so I have to get closer.” Where he could, hopefully, rely on his chakra sense instead.

Pulling out another scarf – this one belonged to Izuna, and he only packed it because he was in a rush and it was habit – and wrapped it around his own neck. “Once the genjutsu is broken or we’ve gotten past it into the village itself,” he continued, “I’ll use my chakra sense to figure out Tobirama’s location.”

“If you can’t?” Kazuyuki challenged.

“I’ll ask the buildings,” Hashirama said, voice a little muffled as he pulled the cloth to cover his nose and chin. He settled firmer on Kazuyuki’s back, placing both hands on top of the leopard’s haunches. “By the way, Madara?” 

Midway through swinging his legs over Mifuyu’s back, Madara paused. “Yeah?”

“The only genjutsu that can’t be dispelled by the Sharingan is one that’s held in place by a seal,” Hashirama said. When Madara’s eyes darted towards him, startled, Hashirama laughed. “I’m surprised you don’t know, actually! Mito had a minor one stitched onto the veil of every single Senju kunoichi so the Uchiha can’t peek at their faces.”

Madara opened his mouth. Closed it. “And _why_,” Madara said slowly, “do you think the Uchiha would even _try_ to look at the faces of your women when they obviously do not want to be seen?”

“You know,” Hashirama said, a contemplative look crossing his face, “that’s a very good question.”

A retort hovered at the tip of his tongue, but before he could release it, Mifuyu snapped out a, “Hold on!” Madara, having ridden on her back several times over the past weeks, flung the sealing scroll hurriedly over his back and clutched tightly into her fur.

Wind whipped through Madara’s hair, breaking the ties that kept the strands back into a loose braid, and Madara snarled under his breath as a few immediately tried to go up his nose. He ignored it as best as he could, lowering his head so the chilly air would not stab into his eyes even as he tried to keep his gaze fixed on the mountain that was their destination.

It grew closer with every cold snap that bit at his skin through the heavy layers he already wore. Soon enough, Mifuyu growled, “Tighter!” and Madara had to slump forward, pressing his chest against her spine and wrapping his arms entirely around her torso.

Because she was running _upwards_. Not directly up the mountain’s surface like he and Hashirama had as children, practising their cliff-climbing, but she had swung over to the side of the mountain, where they would be hidden from view by the _other _mountains that surrounded this one. Here, the path wasn’t one that could be navigated by human feet, full of rocks that jutted out sharply. But it was perfect for a pair of leopards.

Mifuyu leapt from one rock to another, her paws barely touching the surface before she propelled once more into the air. She was so fast that gravity couldn’t even catch hold of her, and neither her large size nor Madara’s weight on her back seemed to hamper her in the slightest. 

Madara could see the level ground getting further and further from him with every breath. Soon, it stretched out in front of him, so far away that it all turned into sheets of grey stone dotted with patches of grass that prompted disappeared as the clouds closed in. Wind constantly bit at him as vapour washed over him and soaked into his hair. If he wasn’t careful, if he wasn’t holding tightly enough, he would fall, and Mifuyu wouldn’t be able to catch him.

It was exhilarating and terrifying at the same time, and Madara wondered, briefly, if Tobirama ever had a chance to ride like this on his summon’s back.

If Madara would ever have a chance to ride snow leopards with Tobirama by his side, and see what kind of face the younger man would make as his blood rushed and his heart pounded but there was no danger that he truly needed to fear.

Out of the corner of his eye, Madara could see Hashirama’s hair stream out like a sheet of brown silk hung out to dry in the afternoon sun. His friend’s face was buried in between Kazuyuki’s shoulder blades, his legs clutching tightly to the leopard’s hips. Hashirama might not complain about it, but Madara _knew_ that he did not take well to relying on the leopards for transport.

Hashirama had once said that he was too closely linked to plants for animal summons to like him, but that didn’t quite explain his near-avoidance of them. Madara wondered if this was something else within his friend that Senju Butsuma had shattered and Hashirama had never quite figured how to put back together properly.

“This is as far as we can bring you.”

Madara lifted his head. Tiny clouds fogged in front of his lips with every exhale, and their larger cousins obscure his view. Blinking once, he activated his Sharingan. 

It gave him absolutely nothing but stone that stretched forward until the peak, at which point it dropped sharply off. Madara dragged a hand down his face, swiping off the water that had gathered on his lashes. Then he held up that same hand to forestall Hashirama’s questions and Kazuyuki’s impatience.

Then, planting his feet flat on stone and closing his eyes, he shoved chakra out around him.

_Seeing_ with chakra was practically the opposite of using his Sharingan, or even the Mangekyou, especially with the surrounding stone deadening his senses. But Madara could feel the chakra hovering in the air around him now, which was strange, because there was supposedly no living thing here except for himself, Hashirama, and the two leopards.

Madara let out a long, low breath.

There was a seal he had been working, on and off, with Mito for the six weeks and some before he had left the village; a seal that could weave his chakra sense and his eyes together so as to further sharpen his vision without relying on his Sharingan and therefore straining his chakra coils. 

(Tobirama had promised to heal his eyes whenever the damage reached critical state. But there was so much that Tobirama had to do already, and if taking care of his own eyes meant relieving some of his concubine’s burdens, he would do it.)

Well, it had mostly been Mito making it, but the idea had been originally his, and he _had_ tried to contribute as much as he could with his still-limited knowledge of sealing theory.

In any case, he tapped the bridge of his nose lightly with two fingertips. Then, slowly, he opened his eyes.

_There_: thread-like lines that glowed whenever he turned his head the right way. They floated in the air— no, Madara corrected himself. They seemed to be etched into the _clouds_ themselves. 

Which didn’t make sense, because clouds simply weren’t solid enough to hold such seals. But if they weren’t clouds in the first place, then…

Sitting up, he stretched out an arm, and then swept it backwards while keeping his head tilted to be able to see the edges of the seals. He kept beckoning Mifuyu and Kazuyuki to move back, the latter grumbling words that Madara couldn’t be bothered to parse.

“Wood,” Hashirama said, suddenly. When Madara flicked a glance towards him, he realised that Hashirama had taken off his sandals and planted his bare feet on the ice-cold stone. His hands were stretched out as if trying to grasp something no one else could see. “I can feel wood here, a huge amount of it, but I can’t— I can’t _see_ any of it.” 

Madara knew exactly where the seals were, now. He could even hazard a guess about which part of the village they were.

“So,” he said. “How subtle are we trying to be here?” 

“Do you remember,” Hashirama said, voice casual in a way that meant that he was anything but, “what Mito and you said about wanting a war against another country to prove to the Akimichi that they should submit to our leadership?”

“Wasn’t peace supposed to be the village’s purpose?” Madara asked in the same tone.

“Oh, it is,” Hashirama said. “But none of us are foolish enough to not be prepared for war knocking on our doors, and diplomacy can only go so far.” His lips stretched sideways into a smile that showed his teeth and did not reach his eyes. “Sometimes you really need to send a message.” He tipped his had to the side.

“A deterrent,” he finished.

Hashirama, Madara recalled grimly, was born into a warzone, and had learned how to navigate an actual battlefield when he was eight years old. 

“Should the message be nuanced?” he asked. “Or will ‘don’t fuck with people I care about’ do?”

"Oh, I think the message can be even simpler." Throwing his head back, Hashirama barked a laugh. “What do you think, Madara?”

“I agree,” Madara said, swinging his legs off Mifuyu’s back and standing on stone. “Sometimes the simplest messages are the best-suited.” He let out a long breath. Once Hashirama had come to stand beside him and Kazuyuki and Mifuyu were enough of a distance away that they would not be harmed, he stretched out his arms. 

“Touch Tobirama,” Madara started, drawing his hands together into the Tiger hand seal.

“And we’ll destroy you,” Hashirama finished, and slapped his palms together.

“Senjutsu—”

“—Susano’o!”

As his chakra exploded around him and started coalescing into the familiar form while Hashirama’s poisonous plants started winding up its legs, Madara smiled. Once he was high enough that he could see not only the flickering edges of the seals but also the way it encircled a specific area, the barely-formed mouth of the tengu-like face pursed together.

And _blew_.

“Katon: Gouka Mekkyaku!”

Fire sparked, and caught on nothingness. Wood flickered into view.

Madara smiled as the gates of Yamagakure burned.

The trick to information gathering, Izuna mused to himself, was in creating circumstances that would allow him to ask questions that looked to have absolutely nothing to do with what he was actually looking for, but which had answers that could lead him to what he sought.

He had spent the last day or so within this village dressed as a travelling merchant and armed with a story about having lost his farm to unfair policies from the Water’s capital and hoping to make a new living by selling goods from the Land of Lightning to the Land of Water. The village rarely received visitors, and even fewer with the intention to spend money on them, and so with every block of goat cheese he had bought, Izuna had gotten closer to finding the creature.

Or, at least, at where he guessed the creature would be.

Strange people had been appearing around the area, one of the village’s shepherds had whispered into Izuna’s ear, and all of them had been seen heading towards the tallest mountain of the region. What was even odder, the shepherd’s wife had added, was that those people had never been seen coming _down_, and it didn’t make sense because there was a massive avalanche some months back that made that particular mountain terribly dangerous.

Izuna didn’t need to ask them to know why they hadn’t tried to investigate themselves. In villages like these, insular and isolated from everyone else, tended to keep to their own affairs. There were enough possible treacheries from the animals in the mountains and the weather to deal with for them to try to look at what might not even concern them, especially since those things tended to be beyond their ability to handle.

Something that Touka likely wouldn’t be able to understand. Not to say that Touka was a busybody who poked her nose into other people’s business, of course, but Izuna suspected that Touka looked at the words _limits_ and _too dangerous_ and thought them to be particularly unfulfilling snacks.

Hah, he must be getting maudlin from the long weeks he had spent as a lone Uchiha, because he was now thinking about _Touka_. Usually, he would find thoughts of Madara invading his mind whenever he was away for a week. After that, it would be random musings about whether Hikaku was doing okay or if his head had exploded from the overload of memories. Then, in truly desperate situations like when he had been fighting illegally for Oda, he would start musing randomly about Tsurugi and Shiomi, mostly because he generally avoided thinking about Dad and Mom.

Letting Hikaku’s name cross his mind a mistake, because now Izuna was remembering how the other man’s mouth had looked when Izuna had fed him water in an effort to get his breathing back in control. It wasn’t anything terribly strange, he tried to reassure himself again. He and Hikaku had always been close – though they were so distantly related by blood that they might as well not be at all, Hikaku had shown his potential early _and_ was close to Izuna in age, so they had played together as children and had sparred against each other when the time came for them to start preparing for battle. It hadn’t been Madara or Dad or even Mom who had witnessed Izuna’s first successful Grand Fireball, but Hikaku.

So, feeding him water shouldn’t have been anything strange. But Izuna couldn’t stop thinking about it, and now his mind was starting to twist and wonder if Touka was taking care of him and if the two of them had managed to reach the village. Which made even _less_ sense, because Madara and Mito were both sensors, and if Touka and Hikaku hit any kind of trouble, Madara at the very least would be rushing out of the gates to make sure they were alright.

Even if they didn’t, Madara would’ve. There shouldn’t be any possibility of Touka and Hikaku being in danger once they reached the range of Madara’s chakra sense.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Izuna let out a long sigh. He looked around himself, checking that he had reached one of the sparse forests that didn’t even see villagers passing by. Then, reaching up, he pulled off the brown wig he had placed on himself, dumping it into the haversack he had bought at one of the shops near Lightning’s border with Water, and threw everything into the sealing scroll he kept tucked against his ankle and hidden by his sock. 

After checking that his weapons were within easy reach – his sword behind his back, kunai and senbon in a pouch tied to his thigh – Izuna rolled his head from side to side. Even before the last echoes of the cracks had faded, he had already bitten his thumb and slammed it onto the ground.

“What do you want _now_, brat?”

“Good afternoon, Yatagarasu,” Izuna drawled, not even turning to look at the giant bird at his side, choosing to do another needless check at his weapons pouch. “It’s good to see you again, too. How have you been lately?”

A quiet snort, and then a dark beak brushed over the top of his head. Izuna let a tiny smile curve up one side of his lips before he turned his head up.

The leader of his summons was a massive crow, his body more than three metres from wingtip to wingtip when they were spread. Standing on his three legs, he towered over Izuna, and each of his black eyes was bigger than Izuna’s fist.

“You never call me unless you need something,” Yatagarasu groused, tugging at strands of Izuna’s hair with his beak and messing up his ponytail entirely. “I want to go back to sleep, so tell me what it is you want already.”

“For someone who wants things over with quickly,” Izuna said, squinting so he wouldn’t yelp at the sparks of pain on his scalp, “you’re deliberately making it impossible for me to actually speak properly.”

“Aww,” Yatagarasu cooed, which was a disturbing sound because his voice was rumbling deep and low like the echoes of war drums. “Does the little shinobi find it difficult to speak when he’s having his hair pulled?”

Rolling his eyes, Izuna raised his arm and elbowed the beak tangling his hair. “You’re worse than a six-year-old boy who has just met a girl he finds pretty,” he informed the crow, tart. “At least that child would stop once he realised his affections are reciprocated.”

Yatagarasu tilted his head to the side, eyes large and unblinking. Izuna met that stare evenly for a few seconds before he could no longer contain himself: he stuck his tongue out.

“And you say that _I_ am like a child,” Yatagarasu said, voice rising higher with his glee. “You’re even more of a brat, Izuna-sama.”

“I’m starting to wonder if that honorific has any meaning,” Izuna grumbled as he walked down the length of the massive crow’s body, “given that nobody who uses it has any respect for me.”

“Perhaps you should consider what you have done, and what you are, that might merit such disrespect,” Yatagarasu said, and obligingly bounced slightly so as to help Izuna climb onto his back. Then he turned his head, practically nuzzling against Izuna’s cheek with the soft, glossy feathers of his own. “Back to business now, Izuna-sama?”

“Mm,” Izuna nodded, clutching onto feathers of Yatagarasu’s back. “I need to get up to that tallest mountain. The quarry I’m hunting might be there.” He paused. “Even if it’s not, it’d be good for me to check out that place anyway.”

Spreading out his wings, Yatagarasu made a few experimental flaps. Once he was sure that Izuna was secure enough – he was _such_ a worrywart, because Izuna hadn’t fallen from his back since he had been _thirteen_ and had just signed the summoning contract with the crows – his three legs bent and he shot up into the air. 

Once they were gliding over the tree line, the crow said, “I am guessing that a great deal happened since the last time you called one of us to deliver a letter to your older brother, Izuna-sama.” 

“You might say that,” Izuna said, wry. Before he could start telling Yatagarasu about the cave that he and Touka had found, however, a great _boom_ rang out around them. 

Yatagarasu dove just as Izuna instinctively ducked. A good thing, too, because he could feel the tops of his head brush against the branches, sending leaves scattering down around them. Then Yatagarasu swerved in mid-air to avoid a strangely large tree, and Izuna yelped, clinging onto the huge crow tighter even as he tried to turn his head in the direction of the massive explosion. 

He barely managed to catch a glimpse of familiar-looking orange flames before another explosion followed, this one even louder than the last. Yatagarasu screeched in alarm, and Izuna’s ears barely had the time to ring from the sheer volume before a massive _roar_ tore the air, the sound of it reminding Izuna of the stories of koma-inu bellowing in defence of the shrines they protected.

“What the fuck?” Izuna cried. “That’s—” he flung his body forward, knees digging into Yagarasu’s shoulders as he placed his mouth as close to the side of the crow’s head as he could. “You’re going in the wrong direction, Yatagarasu! We’re heading _for_ the tallest mountain! Not _away_ from it!” 

“Have you gone insane, Izuna-sama?” Yatagarasu yelled back. “I’m not going to fly straight into the centre of an explosion!” His voice shifted rapidly between a crow’s screechy cry and his deep, human-like voice with every other word, creating a cacophony that was almost enough to make Izuna wince.

He shoved the small pain to the back of his head. Now was not the time.

“We _have_ to go there,” he tried to convince his summon, keeping his voice calm with some effort even as he fought to keep his balance on the crow’s neck. “That first explosion, that’s—” He was cut off by the sound of another great roar, and he turned his head in the direction of the sound.

Blue fire raged at the peak of the mountain he was trying to reach, each tongue of flame seemingly alive as they whipped through the air. Izuna shoved his curiosity about what could create flames of that colour to the side, focusing instead on the source of the heat that had burned away all of the clouds and exposed the village built on the mountain’s peak for all eyes to see.

Orange flames blazed with a ferocity that Izuna knew almost as well as his own Grand Fireball. They licked at the tall wooden walls surrounding the village – it had to be the village that Hikaku had mentioned, though Izuna couldn’t quite remember the name right now – and devoured the wood with a speed that belied their colour: they were as hot as white fire, and burned even more furiously than the blue flame that was situated in what seemed like the village’s centre. 

There was no way that a fire like this was natural. No way either that it was caused by the use of explosive tags. Only a fire jutsu could create flames like these, and only one clan in all five shinobi countries had enough affinity with and control over fire chakra that they could do this. And out of every Uchiha that currently lived, there was only one who had enough strength and sheer chakra level to use _this_ particular jutsu.

If this fire wasn’t caused by Madara’s Great Fire Annihilation, Izuna would never nag his older brother about his hair ever again. He would _eat it_ instead.

“Are you ever going to finish your sentence, Izuna-sama?” Yatagarasu yelled, clearly panicking as he circled and circled the burning mountaintop without getting closer. “What _is_ that? Why do with have to get close to it?” 

“Nii-san!” The answer burst out of Izuna. “That’s Nii-san and I need to—”

Another roar tore through the air, loud enough that Izuna reckoned he could feel the mountains themselves tremble.

“Your older brother can make a sound like that?” Yatagarasu asked, incredulous.

“No, you idiot!” Izuna snapped. “The orange fire! That’s Nii-san!”

“But what is—”

“I don’t know!” he yelled. “But I _do_ know that Nii-san is there, and whatever is causing the blue fire can hurt him, and I need to get there so I can _help_!” 

“I refuse to fly into a fire, Izuna-sama!” Yatagarasu yelped, sounding offended now. “Even if there isn’t a threat of a massive koma-inu there—”

Izuna slammed a fist down on the joint connecting Yatagarasu’s head to his right wing, shutting him up. “Then I’ll jump off your back and _run_ there!” he shrieked, having lost all of his patience. “I don’t have time to argue with you about this, Yatagarasu! Nii-san is there and he might be danger and I have to help him!”

What the hell was Madara doing _here_? He was supposed to be back in the village, safe from the creature that Hikaku had said was aiming to drive him, specifically _him_, completely mad. How had Madara end up in Lightning of all places, and how did Izuna not know?

—Oh. It was his own fault: he had been neglecting writing letters to Madara ever since he had separated from Touka. In his defence, Touka was usually the one who reminded him. Not purposefully, of course, but simply when she said Madara’s name or mentioned the village, and Izuna had been trying so hard to not think about either her or Hikaku for so long that—

Not the time! He hissed under his breath, digging his nails under Yatagarasu’s feathers because he couldn’t exactly shake the massive crow, especially not from his current position.

“Well?” he demanded. “Are you flying me there, or do I have to run?”

Silence. Izuna was preparing to shove himself off onto the ground when Yatagarasu threw his great head back and let out an almighty _screech_.

Small birds that remained disturbed in the few trees immediately took to the air, answering the call with panicked chirrups of their own. In the surrounding mountains, Izuna could see great hawks and vultures that nested on the cliffsides take flight as well, letting out high-pitched cries in their alarm.

In the distance, the thing causing the blue fire bellowed even louder, as if it had heard Yatagarasu’s cry and was perfectly willing to meet him in challenge.

Izuna closed his eyes. _The gods save him from prideful summons_, he thought, barely holding onto the last threads of his temper. He hissed out a long breath through his teeth. 

“Enough?” he asked.

Yatagarasu shook his head hard, flicking some of the water and ice that had gathered on his feathers – _had _they been flying so high up? Izuna had been so agitated that he hadn’t felt the cold at all – into Izuna’s face. Izuna reminded himself, again, that throwing a fit at Yatagarasu would get him nowhere.

“Fine,” Yatagarasu spat out finally. Then, as if to spite Izuna even further, he dipped his head down, flapped his massive wings twice, and shot forward like a kunai thrown with the intention to kill.

Fortunately, Izuna was far too used to his antics. He spared a second to roll his eyes before he settled himself firmer on his summon’s neck. He lowered his lids to protect his eyes from the whipping wind and swirling ash as they finally approached the summit.

Madara’s Great Fire Annihilation had formed a massive circle around the village. Izuna watched grimly as those flames devoured the walls down to their foundations, changing what had been used to protect the village’s residents by – he guessed – keeping them out of sight of anyone not in the know of its existence into a death trap that was impossible to escape from. And, within the village itself… Izuna wrapped his arms around Yatagarasu’s neck and settled his chin on top of the crow’s head as he stared.

He had been right: the blue flames _were_ in the centre of the village. But what he had vaguely guessed to be a koma-inu that had somehow caught ghost-fire wasn’t that at all. 

Two long columns of flickering blue swept through the air, scattering shinobi and smashing through buildings. Then they retreated inwards to what looked like two balls of fire joined together. As Izuna watched, breaths coming shorter and shorter in his throat, one of the balls split apart, revealing white spikes surrounded by darkness that reminded him of the cave that he and Touka had found weeks ago.

Red gathered in between the white— _teeth_, Izuna realised with horror— and the colour seemed to swirl within itself, each coil tightening further and further—

He threw himself down, stomach flat against Yatagarasu’s back. The crow screeched, wings flapping through the air as he swerved dizzyingly to the right to dodge the massive fireball that was launched at them from the thing’s _mouth_.

A kasha, Izuna thought, eyes widening despite seeing nothing but the glossy black of Yatagarasu’s feathers. This had to be a kasha, a youkai who stole and ate the corpses of those who had done terrible deeds in their lives. 

But no kasha had ever been said to be this large. No kasha had ever been said to feel like this, so full of chakra that it seemed to be made of it, that its very presence made the air tremble and thicken from the sheer weight of its power. 

Something cracked and snapped into pieces. Another great _boom_ rang out as another building collapsed, folding inwards from where the fireball had hit it. Smoke billowed and more ash rose to choke the air.

Izuna gritted his teeth. Surely this was what standing in the stomach of a volcano must feel like: heat that threatened to flay his skin and muscle from the bone, the smell of burning wood twined inexorably with that of scorched flesh, and, winding through it all, the stench of sulphur like an entire farm’s worth of rotting eggs—

Sharp crackles snapped his thoughts into half. “Down!” Izuna shouted.

Yatagarasu swooped just as what looked like a storm cloud, shot through and buzzing with lightning, flew right past them straight at the kasha. He lifted his head just in time to follow its trajectory, his Sharingan activating by instinct and engraving forever into his memory that kasha’s mouth opening wide, far wider than any living thing’s mouth should be able to manage, and _swallowed_ the entire ball of lightning.

White teeth glinted orange and red and blue. Two eyes, one yellow and one green, opened, and fixed upon something to the ground.

“Go!” Izuna yelled, driven by an incoherently-shrieking instinct. He slammed his hands down on Yatagarasu’s back and leapt forward, legs tucked into himself as he flew past the crow’s great head, aiming for the ground.

Just as Yatagarasu disappeared in a puff of white smoke that was immediately drowned by grey ash, the kasha – he had no other name for it, and he refused to use _creature_ for anything except for the thing that had controlled him and which he was hunting down – swept out its tails. Weakened pillars snapped into half, more ash billowing upwards, but none of that noise could drown out the sounds of screams as shinobi caught on blue fire and burned to death. 

Izuna hit the ground on the balls of his feet. As he rolled forward, practically _under_ the kasha, the heavy ash cleared for the briefest of moments. Just enough for him to catch a glance of what he sought.

He _ran_. Voices behind him barked orders, and feet pounded against the ground as Lightning shinobi gathered for another attack. Izuna ignored them, using the kasha’s body as shield as he headed past it, all the way to the back where he had—

“Nii-san!” he hollered, throwing himself down on his back to slide underneath one of the kasha’s swiping paws. Then he flung himself back onto his feet and kept running. “_Nii-san!_”

Black pinwheels on red turned to fix on him. Izuna opened his mouth, about to yell again, when he heard the same sharp crackling as he had before. He ducked instinctively, uselessly, because he was an open target now, close to the kasha to be hit but not enough to be hidden—

Around him, branches and roots ripped themselves out of the soil, immediately splintering and shattering upon contact with the lightning jutsu meant to take Izuna down. Izuna threw a glance back, and his lips parted in a silent scream when he saw one of those branches thicken before his very eyes before sweeping to the side, knocking a group of three shinobi off their feet. Then, before Izuna could even yell for Hashirama to stop, or react in any way, the branch grew vines that wrapped around three throats simultaneously.

He could not hear the cracks of their necks breaking through the din. But the sound still rang in his head anyway. He fought down a shudder.

“Izuna!”

Instinct and long exposure to Madara’s Susano’o had Izuna relaxing the very moment he felt a massive, ghostly hand close over his body, dragging him to his brother. 

No wonder Madara could bear to stand right behind the kasha despite the tails that could so easily destroy him, Izuna thought, staring. Hashirama had built what could be described as a wooden cave around them, the rooftop stretching out long and wide enough to shield them from the debris flying through the air. As Izuna watched, vines writhed above and stiffened into branches the moment the kasha’s fire threatened to near.

And Madara’s hand was frozen in the shape of the Tiger seal as well, exerting control over any and all flames that did not belong to the kasha so that they weren’t burnt.

“What are you doing here, Izuna?” Madara asked, eyes fixed forward on the massive beast in front of him.

“That should be my question,” Izuna said, his own gaze fixed upon his brother’s face. “You’re supposed to be back at the village!”

Madara opened his mouth, then seemed to change his mind as he shook his head hard, strands of wild hair smacking him on the cheeks and lips. “Never mind that,” he said brusquely. “Help us get over there.”

“Where?” Izuna asked. When Madara pointed with his free hand, he turned automatically.

And wished he hadn’t, because his older brother was pointing _straight_ at the kasha. To its _back_.

“Are you fucking _crazy_?” Izuna exclaimed, hating that he was echoing Yatagarasu but not finding any other words that could fit. “It’s obvious pissed to all hells and back and aiming to burn this village to the ground—”

“Yamagakure,” Hashirama piped up. “It’s not fair that they came up with a name for their village when we still don’t have one—”

“Give me one good reason,” ignoring Hashirama, Izuna’s eyes bore into Madara’s. “_One_ reason, Nii-san, why I should even let you get near that thing, much less help you—”

“Tobirama,” Madara interrupted. “Tobirama is there.”

Now that Izuna was looking at him properly without ash obscuring his vision, he realised that there was something odd about Madara’s Mangekyou. The sclera was blood-red, which was normal, but the shade was wrong. It should be bright vermillion, but it was now a sickening crimson, and— Izuna’s breath caught in his throat as he watched, horrified and speechless, as blood gathered on Madara’s under-lids and started to spill over to trail long, thin lines down his cheeks.

“Nii-san,” Izuna whispered. “Your eyes—”

“Those bastards took him,” Madara said. His gaze turned back to the kasha, and his chakra gathered around him, so heavy that Izuna could feel what little oxygen his lungs had managed to snatch from the smoke-thickened air slowly being squeezed out. “They _took_ _him _and I’ve finally found him after _weeks_ and he’s now with that _thing_. I can’t see where he is but I can feel his chakra, he’s right _there_ and it’s so weak and—”

“If you say anything about Tobirama being anything but in the peak of health again, Madara,” Hashirama said, his voice filled with such hollow cheer that Izuna’s hand twitched towards a kunai by instinct, “I will lose control.” 

“We have to get there,” Madara said without turning his eyes from the kasha. “I _will_ get there and I _will _get Tobirama back, Izuna, whether or not you’re helping me. I’m not letting it hurt him more than it already has—”

“Isobu.”

Izuna had a brief moment to wonder why Madara and Hashirama’s gazes had suddenly snapped to him before he realised that he had spoken. That the name that had swept through the three of them like a sudden cool breeze in the midst of a volcanic storm was spoken by his own lips. 

His throat bobbed.

“What?” Madara asked.

“Back in Uzushio, Tobirama brought a thing back from the sea,” he heard himself say. “A beast the same size as this,” it took so much effort for him to turn his head and nod at the kasha still rampaging through the Lightning shinobi’s attempts to contain it, “and made entirely of chakra, too. Tobirama said,” he licked his lips, “its name is Isobu.”

“What are you trying to say, Izuna?” Madara asked, his hands grabbing onto Izuna’s elbows.

“If Tobirama is close to it,” Izuna continued, “it’s more likely that it’s protecting him than hurting him.” He closed his eyes, nails digging into his palms. “Because he would’ve made friends with it.”

“Friends,” Madara repeated. “He would’ve… made friends with it.”

“That’s what he did with Isobu,” Izuna said. “That’s why Uzushio started calling him _shintaku_.” A deep, shuddering breath to fight against his closing throat. “I recorded it with my Sharingan, and I can show you—” His eyes slipped shut without his consent. “Nii-san—”

“Izuna,” Madara said. “What’s going on? What’s—” His voice abruptly faded out.

It didn’t matter that Madara was here because he had been looking for Tobirama, Izuna told himself. Just because Madara chose to do that didn’t mean that he loved Izuna less because he now had Tobirama to care for. And it didn’t matter either that Tobirama already had an older brother to take care of him. It wasn’t true that Tobirama was stealing Madara from Izuna

It didn’t _matter_ that Madara was here for Tobirama, didn’t matter that Tobirama already had an older brother to look out for him, and it wasn’t true at all that Tobirama was _stealing_ Madara from him.

Izuna knew where those thoughts were coming from, and it wasn’t _him_.

“Hashirama!” he finally managed to force out. “_It’s_ _here_!”

Underneath his feet, the ground shuddered. Izuna’s eyes snapped open just in time to catch the sight of vines and branches tearing out of the soil, verdant green stark against grey ash. He forced himself to remain still because he wasn’t and he refused to be afraid of Hashirama, refused to distrust him because Hashirama might be terrifying in his abilities but he would not hurt— 

A snarl pushed its way out of his throat as his arms were forced to wrap around his own chest. Vines wrapped around his ankles and knees, tying his legs together and pinning him to the ground. His chakra burned in his own veins, and the world shifted into—

“Sorry,” Hashirama said, and that was all the warning Izuna had before the ground _rocked_ beneath him. He barely had time to register the heavy trunk bursting out of the soil before his back was slammed against it, knocking the breath out of his lungs even as vines shot out to wrap around his throat.

He couldn’t speak. He could barely _breathe_, and the black spots of dizziness dotting his vision made it impossible for him to turn on his Mangekyou.

Lowering his head, he reminded himself that he had asked for this. That this was necessary, because one wrong move now would—

The vines immobilising him were crawling forward. The few pavement stones that still remained clattered as strong roots cracked concrete apart to pull them out of the soil. Soon, the kasha in front of them was entirely surrounded by ropes of bright green. 

Heterochromatic eyes, one yellow and one green, turned to look at the three of them. Izuna watched though his blurring vision as Madara met them squarely before bending his knees. He placed two fingers on top of the vines closest to him.

“Amaterasu,” he whispered.

Black fire rose up, following the path that Hashirama’s mokuton had marked. As they rushed past Izuna to surround the kasha, he shuddered: perhaps it was because the air was still scorching from the overabundance of fire, but Madara’s Amaterasu felt _cold_, as if Izuna’s older brother had managed to control the black fire to such an extent that it now provided relief instead of causing harm.

Once the kasha was surrounded, Madara whispered something too soft for even Izuna to catch, and his Amaterasu flickered into nothingness.

“You—” a low voice growled. It sounded distinctively feminine, somehow, and Izuna could not see its source.

An entire group of Lightning shinobi were standing in front of the kasha. The leader, a man-shaped figure with the hood pulled so far over his head that his face was shadowed, held out an arm, urging his men back. But he was already too late. Madara smiled.

Amaterasu roared back into life, living columns of black flames that rose and rose until they crested over the kasha’s head. Then it fell forward in a way that reminded Izuna of Tobirama’s water walls as they collapsed, and—

Screams filled the air, followed almost immediately by the stench of burning flesh. Madara held the kasha’s gaze.

“My little brother said,” he murmured, “that you might be protecting someone dear to me.”

The kasha’s head tilted to the side. A cat, Izuna finally realised. Not only was it covered in flames like a kasha, but it was in the shape of a cat as well. Though its size was far more akin to a bakeneko than a standard kasha: stories of kasha had them the size of a human at their largest, and never had they been monstrous felines several times the size of buildings, and with enough bulk to occupy a clearing all by itself.

What was it? What was _Isobu_? How could and _why_ did things like them exist?

“Uchiha.” That voice came from it. From _her_? Izuna wasn’t sure. “Both you and your brother are Uchiha, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Madara said. Izuna tried to nod the best he could.

The influence of the creature on his mind had faded slightly. 

But Izuna didn’t have time to wonder why, because the kasha in front of him was tilting its head slightly to the side, and its eyes were staring at Izuna’s brother in a way that made him fear for Madara’s life.

“You are,” the kasha said, every drawling word punctuated by the gasping screams of dying shinobi and the sizzling cracks of her tails burning the air, “Tobirama’s Madara, aren’t you?”

“I am Madara,” Izuna’s older brother said, and there was the briefest hint of a smile on the corner of his mouth. “And if Tobirama will allow it, I will be his Madara.”

“What about you?” Its gaze shifted sideways, skipping Izuna entirely.

“He calls me,” Hashirama said, eyes half-lidded, “Anija.” His shoulders curved inward as he dipped his chin down. “My name is Hashirama.”

“A Senju.” The cat murmured. “One with the mokuton.” Something red peeked from beneath its white, white fangs. “Uchiha and Senju standing together, learning to combine the skills passed down the generations together. For the sake of one who carries the name of both.” Its smile widened. Its gums were black. “If only my father and uncle could see this.”

“Thank you,” Hashirama said. Pressed together tight like this, his lips were very pale. “May I ask where is my brother—”

“So polite,” it said, and made a sound that could be nothing but a _chortle_. “Be careful with him.”

Before anyone could ask – Izuna could feel the question hovering on the tip of his tongue, and was very glad for the vines holding him still because he _did not_ want to stab Tobirama again, much less with his own kunai this time – one of the long columns of flame behind it moved. A tail, Izuna realised; both columns of flames at its back were its tails. And didn’t Isobu have three tails? Izuna couldn’t remember accurately—

That tail curled. Tobirama was on her back, Izuna realised, riding on her like a summoner would the leader of their summons if the latter was large enough—

No, not riding. Even with the constant spots of black edging into the corners of his vision, Izuna could tell how pale Tobirama was. Then he had to stop looking, because his hands had started clenching and unclenching of their own accord the moment Hashirama and Madara reached out for Tobirama’s prone figure. 

As Madara’s arms wrapped around Tobirama, cradling him to his chest like he was the only precious person he ever had in his life, Izuna’s head pounded. As Madara sank to his knees and laid Tobirama across his thighs, Izuna’s eyes flashed red.

_No_, he told himself. _No_. He refused—

“Look at me,” Madara whispered, interrupting Izuna’s thoughts. His fingers were shaking as they stroked them over Tobirama’s arms; arms that, Izuna realised, were marked with ink that looked an awful lot like chakra suppression seals. 

What had this— this Yamagakure place _done _to him? Why have they taken him in the first place?

“Wake up, Tobirama, and look at me.”

Metal flooded into Izuna’s mouth. He swallowed the blood from his own lip, and focused on what was happening ahead of him.

“Why are you asking for such a silly thing?” the kasha asked.

Madara froze. “Silly?” he asked. There was something strange in the way he said that—

“Do you prefer the word ‘foolish’?” the kasha snorted. “Or should I say ‘hopeless?” 

“I don’t understand,” Madara said, a strange note creeping into his voice. “What do you mean?”

“He can’t look at you,” the kasha said, sounding as if it was stating an obvious fact everyone should know. “He can’t look at _anyone_. You should know that.”

“What?” Madara’s voice was barely audible.

“His eyes worked fine,” Hashirama said, and there was a flatness to his voice that Izuna had never heard before. “The last time we saw him, he could look at us. He has always done his best to look at us.”

There was something odd in the way Hashirama had phrased that—

“Well, I’ve never known him to be able to see,” the kasha said, and its tails swished through the air in a way that reminded Izuna of a shrug. “Take what you will from that.”

“They blinded him,” Madara whispered. 

“Likely,” the kasha nodded. One of its tails passed by Izuna, leaving scorching air in its wake.

“Oh,” Madara said. 

Something small and primal in Izuna’s mind shrieked, drowning out the wordless whispers that nudged at the back of his head. Red flooded the world as his Sharingan activated. He strained against Hashirama’s vines without knowing why, lips parting—

No sound escaped him. No sound _could_, because Hashirama had cut off his air. He could only watch as Madara’s head rose; stare in horror as the familiar black pinwheels on red of his older brother’s Mangekyou faded away.

To be placed by _rings_. Concentric and black, they surrounded a single dot that had appeared in the centre of his eyes. His sclera had changed to a shade that Izuna could recognise even through red of the Sharingan.

Purple, so light that it was almost white. 

This was— Izuna had heard of it before, but he had thought they were only stories. Myths and fairytales, no more real than those of the youkai.

Heavy, crackling chakra choked the air around them. “They blinded him,” Madara repeated, eyes fixed ahead and unmoving. “They—”

“Hah. Haha,” Hashirama said, little noises from the back of his throat that sounded nothing like his usual booming laugh.

Beneath their feet, the ground trembled as if in fear.

Izuna tried to shout. _Stop_, they had to stop, they had to— he struggled against the vines. He tried to do something— 

He couldn’t do anything.

Around them, shattered pieces of wood started growing. Massive roots and branches and even trunks burst into being from the air itself, covering every inch of ground they could. Shinobi didn’t even have time to scream before their ribs were crushed to powder, and all they could do was gurgle, throats squeezed so tight that they drowned in their own blood—

And the vines on the ground were multiplying, crawling up the growing trees. Pale flowers bloomed and, in a matter of seconds, the air was filled with floating pollen. One unlucky shinobi breathed in and choked immediately, blood spilling down his chin and throat as the powder melted the skin off his mouth upon coming in contact with his saliva—

Screams. So many screams, so many people dying at once, an entire village's worth of them. Not even the kasha’s efforts could match up to Hashirama as his mokuton rampaged through the village, tearing through the buildings—

Madara stood, Tobirama’s unmoving form held in his arms. He dropped his head back. 

They blinded him. They _blinded_ him. They. Blinded. _Him_.

He would never be able to see Tobirama’s eyes again. Would never be able to see how the red brightened whenever he smiled without moving his lips. Would never to see them narrowed in focus as he thought. Would never see them disappear into tiny red slits whenever he scrunched up his nose like a cat. Would never—

Tobirama would never see again. He had saved Madara’s eyes, had healed them and ensured that Madara would never have to fear the world going dark. But _he_ was doomed to an existence of darkness without anything left, and it was all the fault of these shinobi around them. Madara had no idea why they had taken Tobirama and he didn’t care, they _stole_ him and they _hurt _him and they had to— they would—  
_  
PAY_

Madara screamed.

The noise rang through the air, cutting through the din made by those suffering under Hashirama’s hand. Then a great gale came, summoned as if by his shriek, and it wasn’t a fuuton jutsu at all because no fuuton was strong enough to collapse buildings the moment it blew outwards. Even Hashirama’s new-grown trees couldn’t withstand the onslaught: trunks at least five times the width of a man snapped into half before the lower stumps were ripped from the roots. Bodies of dead and dying shinobi flew through the air, and screams of fear pounded in Izuna’s ears—

Then Madara let out another shriek. There were words there, but Izuna could not catch them because—

The ground rocked hard, bits of soil flying into the air as a massive hand shoved itself out. It grabbed onto the flying bodies, bright crimson immediately staining the fingers – each larger and thicker than a full-grown man – as they clenched. Pieces of the corpses dropped to the ground, and stayed for barely a moment before another hand appeared. Whatever few shinobi that remained breathing were snatched up, and the two monstrous hands tore them into _half _before they even had time to scream.

Blood and gore and bone splinters splattered across the ground, some of them flying far enough to land on Izuna’s face and hair.

He tried to breathe through the metallic stench of blood that had mixed in with that of smoke and burning flesh. He parted his lips to speak, to scream Madara’s name—

Then a _monster_ tore itself out of the soil. It looked like a sculpture made by a deranged artist, or even a tree that had grown _wrong_: it had fingers and arms and a head, but the fingers were claws and the arms were shrivelled and the head was surrounded by five spikes and there was what looked like a bandage surrounding its eyes. It had _teeth_, rows of them, all sharp as its lipless mouth opened. It let out a howl, inhuman and sharp, echoing Madara’s and drowning out the helpless, terrified shrieks of the few still-living Lightning shinobi. 

Black flashed in of the corner of his eye, heading straight for Madara. 

Izuna had no breath left to scream, no mind left to panic. His skin peeled away from his muscles as his own Amaterasu burned away the vines binding him; the soles of his feet cracked upon the burning soil. He ran and ran, keeping his eyes on his brother and the black _things_ approaching him. His arms stretched out. His fingertips brushed Madara’s back and he _jumped_—

Madara went sprawling with Tobirama still in his arms. Pale hair was immediately smeared with dirt and dust as Madara’s knees hit the dirt, but Madara ducked his head, curling his entire body around Tobirama’s and holding him tight. Tobirama didn’t move, unconscious and limp as a rag-doll. Izuna focused on the strangely-peaceful stillness of his body, and braced for the pain. 

It didn’t come. Liquid dripped into his hair instead.

Craning his head back, Izuna’s eyes widened.

Hashirama’s body loomed over him, his arms straight but shaking. Blood seeped from his lips. As Izuna’s eyes travelled down his body, they widened in horror.

There was a black rod protruding from Hashirama’s throat, barely a few centimetres from driving a hole through Izuna’s own skull. Red dripped from the tip, the length gleaming with Hashirama’s blood. More of the same rods stuck out of his chest from where they had gone through his entire torso, and, as Izuna watched, red spread out from the holes that they had caused.

Izuna’s eyes darted up back to his face. _Why_, he wanted to ask. Why would Hashirama— _How_ could Hashirama, in the midst of his own rage over Tobirama’s condition— How could he—

He saved him. Izuna had been so focused on making sure that Madara wasn’t harmed by these black rods that had appeared out of nowhere that he had looked at nothing else, hadn’t realised that Hashirama had seen the same thing, and now Hashirama had— had saved _him_.

A hand cupped his cheek. Izuna stared into those brown eyes. Hashirama had always seem so terrifying strong, entirely unbeatable on the battlefield and implacable outside of it. And even now, when he was surely on the verge of _dying_, he was still— still trying to say something— no, he was just… stroking Izuna’s cheek? Was he trying to— to _comfort_ him?

—No, it was nothing as simple as that. As Hashirama’s hand moved down his body, Izuna could feel the sharp, throbbing pain of his burns fade with every brush of Hashirama’s fingers to be replaced by the distinctive chill of medical jutsu. The minor aches of his overextended muscles – he had been travelling nonstop for _months_ now – withered with the same speed and efficiency as Hashirama’s mokuton-made trees when he had no more use for them. 

Swallowing, Izuna forced his lips to part. But whatever words he was about to say died as quickly in his throat as the Lightning shinobi around him, because Hashirama had finished healing him and was now sitting back on his calves. He moved as if he didn’t have several things sticking out of his body, and he _smiled_ at Izuna as he gripped onto the rod that had driven into his throat and—

Pulled it out. Like it was nothing.

Izuna stared. And stared even harder even Hashirama… waved the black rod around? No, he wasn’t just waving, but _pointing_, and— oh—

The monster Madara had called continued to shriek, standing above its summoner’s collapsed form with its hands reached out. There was blood all over its hands from the Lightning shinobi it had killed. Now it bent, fingers curling as if—

Izuna had no idea what it was, much less why it had appeared. He only knew that it was _wrong_, and when it appeared, so had the black rods that were aimed straight on Madara’s back. And now it was very close to his older brother, to the _still_ unconscious Tobirama, and Izuna was frankly tired of dealing with monsters. There were far too many of them around him already, and if he could lower the number by one, he would.

So: “Amaterasu!”

Black fire licked at the edges of those hands. The monster _howled_, its head snapping towards Izuna. Even as roots ripped out of the ground, this time circling and practically cradling his body, Izuna focused on the shrieking thing and made Amaterasu burn even fiercer and hotter.

The back of his head pounded. His eyes burned. But the flames had caught, and the monster screamed and writhed on the ground as it was devoured. 

“How _dare_ you!”

The figure standing in front of them was illuminated by Izuna’s Amaterasu consuming the monstrous thing called by Madara’s new eyes, but his face remained shadowed by the hood pulled over it. This was the leader of the shinobi that had been launching attacks on the kasha, Izuna recalled, and was halfway through turning to check on said kasha when the figure reached up and—

Those hands were black. Not the dark tan of those who worked in the fields, but _black _like ink and night sky. 

Oh. Despite the months he had spent searching for this very creature, despite all that it had done to him and those he cared about, Izuna felt neither pleasure nor triumph that it had finally appeared again in front of him.

“Amaterasu!”

Yellow eyes appeared as the hood fell back. The creature _shrieked_, parts of it starting to peel away. But Izuna simply trained his Mangekyou on the thing that had invaded his mind, that had forced his hand to drive a kunai into Tobirama’s chest. This was the creature who had designs on his older brother, who had wanted to drive Madara mad and bring war back to their clans—

(Well, it might have succeeded at that. Izuna did not see a way out of war when they were currently standing in the middle of a foreign village that Hashirama and Madara had just _annihilated_.)

“_Mother_!” the creature cried. It had fallen on its front onto the ground, and was now attempting to crawl forward. “No, _mother_!” 

Izuna stared. The creature’s hand was outstretched, and there was no mistaking the fact that it was trying to reach out for the monstrous thing Madara had summoned. 

“Wow,” Hashirama’s voice appeared beside Izuna, nearly making him jump. “And I thought _my_ family was fucked up.”

Sliding his left eye over to look at him – and keeping the right eye on the two monsters that his Amaterasu was devouring – Izuna’s eyebrow twitched. Hashirama looked like he had taken a bath in blood – which was rather appropriate, given the sheer number of people he had just murdered without batting an eye – but there was no hole in his throat. There weren’t any holes in his chest either. In fact, he was now holding up the black rods.

“If I throw these at that thing,” he paused, “at both of those things, do you think your Amaterasu can burn them as well?”

“Probably,” Izuna shrugged. “I haven’t met anything that Amaterasu can’t burn.”

“Great!” Hashirama nodded. Then he tossed half of the black rods over to his other hand, lifted both like he was going to—

“When you said throw—” Izuna started.

Hashirama flung them like they were lances used by samurai in the Land of Iron. Izuna’s left eye followed their trajectory—

“Mother!” the creature continued to wail. “Zetsu tried for a thousand years, and at the most important juncture, I failed— urk!”

—and he couldn’t help but blow out a low whistle of admiration when all of them found their targets. 

He increased the force of his Amaterasu’s flames, ignoring the stabbing pain starting in his right eye, and watched with satisfaction as Amaterasu happily devoured the monsters _and_ the rods.

A part of him wondered why the creature wasn’t attempting to split itself up, or even escape underground. He supposed that the sight of seeing its ‘mother’ burning was enough to stop it from thinking.

Maybe something good _had_ come out of this: the creature wouldn’t be able to bother them again. His left eye scanned the carnage around him, and it took nearly all of the energy he had left to not burst into loud, hysterical laughter.

“I was going to comment that it is a surprise that humans would dare to talk to me,” a voice rang out above them, sounding incredibly amused, “but I realised there is no need.” The kasha smiled when Izuna flicked his left eye up to meet its green and yellow ones.

“Monsters, after all, have no need to fear when speaking to other monsters.”

Hashirama clicked his tongue. “Don’t say things like that,” he chided. Izuna was about to tell him that he couldn’t argue that he wasn’t a monster when he _was _one when Hashirama continued:

“You really shouldn’t insult yourself like that.” He smiled, tilting his head to the side. “You’re a really pretty cat. I can see why Tobirama likes you.”

The kasha threw its head back and _laughed_, loud and rumbling. “You have no issue being called a monster, Hashirama of the Senju?”

Snorting, Hashirama shook his head. “There’s a nickname for me in some circles that I don’t like talking about because it’s ridiculous—”

“God of Shinobi,” Izuna cut in. “Which,” he met the kasha’s eyes again, and shrugged, “just means the god of murderers and thieves. Might as well be a monster.”

Hashirama flashed him a grin. It should look horribly grotesque given that his face was covered in blood, and every attempt he was making to wipe it away with his sleeve was making it worse because his sleeves were soaked in red as well, but, somehow… Somehow…

He just looked like _Hashirama_. Meaning that he was terrifyingly powerful, but within predictable-enough parameters that Izuna mostly felt the urge to roll his eyes instead of screaming, running away, or trying to set the Senju on fire as a precautionary measure. 

Izuna turned to the writhing creature still burning within his black flames. He viciously made Amaterasu burn even hotter, and crossed his arms with satisfaction as it started flopping around like a landed fish from the pain.

Still keeping an eye on it, he walked forward. His strides matched Hashirama’s before they knelt down before their brothers. A brief glance towards Tobirama showed that he was still unconscious, but Madara…

Madara was still curled around Tobirama, unmoving from the last time Izuna had looked at him. His Rinnegan – those concentric circles of black on a light purple sclera could be nothing but the Rinengan – was still fixed upon Tobirama’s body. Only the shallow movements of his chest up and down showed that he was still alive.

Izuna resisted the urge to close his own eyes – he needed to keep his right eye on the still-burning Amaterasu in case he needed to adjust the temperature of the flames – and let out a long sigh instead.

Honestly, Madara and Tobirama deserved each other. If only because they would drive whoever else they were with to an early grave out of sheer worry.

“Hashirama,” Izuna said. “Do you have a jutsu of some sort to just send someone unconscious?”

“Mm,” Hashirama said. Then he laid a hand – the green glow of a medical jutsu cast strange shades upon drying blood – over Madara’s forehead. Izuna watched as those alien, concentric circles disappeared behind Madara’s familiar eyelids.

Then Hashirama drew his hand back, and tipped his head up. “May I have your name?” he asked the kasha.

“Why?” It asked, tilting its head to the side.

“We have our own village that we’re trying to build,” Hashirama answered. “And I can’t invite you properly to come live with us in our village.” He paused. “It doesn’t have a name as cool as Yamagakure, though. It doesn’t have a name at all yet.”

Izuna swallowed back the urge to laugh. Well, ‘Yamagakure’ _was_ a nice name, which… might be a comfort because there didn’t seem to be much _else_ left of it. 

“Why?” the kasha asked again.

“Because you are Tobirama’s friend,” Hashirama said. “He doesn’t make those often.”

The kasha was silent for long moments. Then it laughed and tossed its head back. “A human that calls itself a monster, yet does not try to destroy other monsters, inviting them into its lair instead,” it murmured. “A Senju who protected one Uchiha with his own body, and aided the other.”

Hashirama kept smiling.

The kasha did not reply. Instead, it started to _shrink_, changing from the size of an entire forest or village to something just a little larger than Yatagarasu. Which was really _much _more manageable and easier to handle.

Could all of them do that? He shelved that away to think about at another time.

“Very well,” it said. The feminine lilt of the voice was so much clearer now— and Izuna’s thoughts cut off as her attention fixed upon him. “What is _your_ name, Uchiha?”

“Izuna,” he gave easily.

She inclined her head, the movement almost regal. “I am Matatabi,” she said. “And I will allow Tobirama to ride on my back, but not Madara.” Her nose wrinkled in a way that reminded Izuna _both_ of Tobirama and a real cat. “He has not earned it yet.”

“That’s fine,” Hashirama said, bending to pick his brother up. “I can carry Madara out of this place. Though there might be an issue with you carrying Tobirama all the way back to our village, Matatabi.”

“Oh?” she arched her eyebrow.

“His summons are waiting for us below this mountain,” Hashirama said, “and they will fight you for the privilege.”

“He has summons?” Izuna blurted out. “What kind?”

“Snow leopards,” Hashirama said.

Izuna blinked. He looked from Matatabi, who was clearly a massive cat who just happened to be constantly on fire, and then to Madara, who looked like a stray cat whose fur had never been brushed, and who behaved like a hissy one whenever offended. Then he stared at Tobirama himself, remembering the way he would shy away from touches aside from those he had approved of, and how he liked to curl into Madara’s clothes.

Then he looked back at Hashirama. There was a small curve at the corner of his mouth that made Izuna suspect that he knew exactly what he was thinking.

“Cats,” Izuna said dryly. “What is it with your brother and _cats_?”

Hashirama threw his head back, laughing, and didn’t answer. Izuna rolled his eyes, and took one step away—

Oh right.

“They’re almost done burning, I think,” Hashirama said helpfully, gesturing with his chin towards both the black creature and the disfigured statue Madara had summoned. “We can wait a while.”

“Mm,” Izuna said, and made Amaterasu burn even hotter even as he ensured once again that the flames reached even underground so the creature couldn’t try to escape through sinking into the soil again.

He wanted to be home already. Or, if nothing else, make sure that Madara was alright. He didn’t have time to waste on this.

Something was trailing down his cheeks. Izuna wiped at them, and then swiped his fingers over his right eye. He blinked down at the gleaming red left behind on his fingers.

Well, he hadn’t time to deal with _this_, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just like Tamamo-no-Mae, Yatagarasu based off [a real myth](https://traditionalkyoto.com/culture/figures/crows/): the three-legged, eight-spans crow that guided the first Emperor of Japan to the island of Yamato. His personality, however, is entirely based off depictions of karasu-tengu, who generally just squawk loudly and fall prey to the mischief of humans. (Think Zazu from _Lion King_.) (The tengu who are considered guardians of mountains, and thus given dignity, are the long-nosed, red-faced ones named _hanataka-tengu_.) 
> 
> All summons except for Tobirama’s snow leopards are based off Japanese mythology because the main three summons in _Naruto_ – and their summoners – are based off the legend of [_Jiraiya Gouketsu Monogatari_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jiraiya). The only reason why Tobirama’s snow leopards aren’t is because Japan doesn’t actually have legends about snow leopards. Because they can’t be found in Japan. 
> 
> Matatabi is compared to both a [kasha](http://yokai.com/kasha/) – which is a cat that’s depicted to be constantly on fire and steals fresh corpses – and a [bakeneko](http://yokai.com/bakeneko/) – which is a feral, monstrous cat spirit that mutated from an original cat.
> 
> Yes, Zetsu and the Demonic Statue of the Outer Path were very unceremoniously destroyed. And with that, I finally end the Zetsu arc, and, well… how many of you have realised that Madara will get the Rinnegan after Chapter 15? :>?
> 
> Anyway, HashiMada is my BroTP in this fic. (They’re my OTP in Chinese fandom, and only Chinese fandom, because HashiMada is a pairing so stuffed with East Asian tropes and references that it’s nearly impossible to do them justice in English. If you don’t believe me, “second life out of three” explains them perfectly in Chinese/Japanese, while it means nothing in English.)
> 
> PS: I love all of you and your comments, and I am _still_ trying to find time and energy to reply. I'm sorry I haven't done so in such a long time, but I read and reread all of them and appreciate every single one. ;~; Thank you so much for commenting because comments validate my existence and motivate me. iluall. <3!


	21. cats of snow and flame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I usually don't put anything but warnings here, but... I hope everyone's alright, and that you're all safe and staying that way. I'm fine except that I am even more buried under my job (there's no such thing as "work from home" in my industry), hence I don't even pop in to answer questions anymore. I still appreciate every single comment I get and reread them a lot whenever I have the few minutes of spare time. Thank you for everyone who commented, especially the two of you who have left me so many as you went through the chapters. iluall. <3!!!
> 
> Updates _will_ continue at the same schedule, and it's not likely to change. I hope that this fic can give you guys some entertainment and escape, or even stability, during these times. ꒰˘̩̩̩⌣˘̩̩̩๑꒱♡

“He still breathes, and his chakra gains strength by the hour.” Mifuyu paused to let out an amused-sounding huff. “But I supposed neither of that would assuage your worries.”

Letting out a long breath, Madara pushed away the urge to close his eyes. “I know that,” he said.

Massive shoulders shifted, muscles rippling beneath him as Mifuyu tossed her head back. “Careful there, Madara,” she said, voice dipping low enough for him to feel it rumble over the back of her ribs. “My acknowledgement of your worries does not mean that I will tolerate rudeness.”

Madara didn’t even have time to retort before Kazuyuki tossed his head back, nearly jarring Izuna from his perch on his back, and snorted. “I do not see how a man without control over his emotions can be worthy of our summoner.” His voice might be soft enough to be a whisper, but it was clear from his sidelong glance that he meant Madara to hear.

Jerking his eyes away, Madara tried to ignore both snow leopards. But there wasn’t much around him to look at, only a few sparse trees dotting the landscape, not nearly enough to provide cover. Still, he chose a specific leaf and stared at it as they approached. He could see the precise veins that started from where the leaf joined to the branch, and the waxy green of the surface practically shone with its own light even under the slowly-darkening skies.

Leaves, Madara thought to himself, shouldn’t look like that. But he couldn’t even blame their surroundings for how strange it looked: he knew that Izuna and Hashirama couldn’t see what he did.

And Tobirama, when he woke, would see nothing at all. 

His eyes had slipped closed somehow. Madara forced them back open, and shoved the pounding headache that wanted to intrude into his thoughts back, too. He kept his gaze fixed upon the leaf until it hurt his neck too much to keep it craned so far to the side.

Better this way than to try to think about Tobirama and what he had suffered.

“He will figure it out,” Mifuyu said, relentless with her reassurances. The soft fur of her tail brushed over the back of Madara’s neck. “Do you doubt his strength and capabilities?”

Swallowing, Madara shook his head. Mifuyu made a questioning noise, and he realised that she couldn’t see his reaction from where he was seated on her back, and he sighed.

“I have no doubts that he will learn to be even deadlier than before,” he said. It almost took a physical effort to get his voice working again. “But that doesn’t take away the fact that he is now blind. That there is an entire sense, the most important one for us humans, that has been taken from him by those who don’t even deserve to breathe in his presence.”

Mifuyu laughed, the sound loud and forceful enough to rumble over her back and nearly jar Madara from his seat. “You have certainly taken spectacular vengeance,” she replied. “And gained a great deal in the process, too.”

Madara turned away, trying to focus on another leaf, or even the bark of the tree they had just passed. 

But his strange eyes betrayed him, and he found his gaze fixed upon a particular mountaintop in the distance.

They had left Yamagakure by speeding down the mountain slopes and past the villages on the backs of the great cats, travelling in hours what had taken him and Hashirama days. Still, even now he could see the exact shades of grey and black of the smoke coiling up to the skies to stain the white clouds; could practically draw the outline of the blown-out peak, jagged and uneven now. It was as if he and Hashirama had turned the mountain into a volcano and it was belching out its frustration and rage at the unconsented change.

This would, he thought grimly to himself, serve as a strong warning to the Lightning Daimyo and anyone else who might dare to touch Tobirama again. That was, of course, if the _reasons_ why Yamagakure had been destroyed actually reached the Daimyo; Madara had a sinking feeling that they had killed every single living person who had once been in the village, leaving no one to pass the message. All that the Daimyo would see was an image of stark destruction.

That would be something for Mito to deal with, he supposed.

He forced his thoughts away from _how_ he had caused that damage. Izuna had tried to tell him some of it when Madara had woken up from the frozen stupor he had fallen into upon realising Tobirama’s condition, had whispered _Rinnegan_ and a whole lot of other words that Madara had forced himself to not register. Madara had turned his head away and refused to go to the river, staying at the banks to stare at too-bright grass blades until his little brother had given up and refilled his waterskin for him.

Izuna shouldn’t have said _you summoned a monster_, Madara thought. He should have said _you have become a monster_.

It had taken years for him to get used to how his face looked when he had the Mangekyou activated. How long would it take before he could accept the ways that these— these new eyes would distort his features? How long would it be before he learned how to _de_activate it, much less _use_ a dojutsu that was, for all intents and purposes, a legend that shouldn’t even exist?

“Are you guys talking about me?”

Hashirama’s footsteps matched Matatabi’s long strides, and his hip-length hair waved nearly in tandem with her two burning-blue tails. The brightness of the great chakra beast’s colours cast shimmering lights down those long strands, making the man himself nearly impossible for Madara to look at.

“No,” he said.

“Only about the vengeance you and Madara have wrought upon that village for our summoner’s sake,” Mifuyu replied to Hashirama at exactly the same time.

Right; they had been talking about something. Madara fought down the sigh, and tried to focus.

Hashirama had been covered in blood when Madara had first awoken – for reasons that Madara still didn’t know, because Hashirama had refused to tell him, but he suspected Izuna had something to do with it because of the way his brother had averted his eyes – and he hadn’t even bothered to change when they had been at the river. Now, when he folded his hands into his sleeves, flakes of dried blood fell from him to litter the ground. Madara could practically hear the cloth crackling.

“Eh,” Hashirama said. “They brought it upon themselves.”

Such appropriate words to suit his appearance, Madara thought, wry. Not for the first time, he wondered where Hashirama’s reputation for being a nice person had come from. Was it because he smiled so much? Had no one other than his closest circle realised how many of those smiles were at best insincere, and at worst a weapon?

Above Hashirama’s head, Matatabi let out a low snort. “Humans are as vicious as they have always been,” she remarked.

“Were you expecting anything else?” Slumped across Kazuyuki’s back – how his brother had convinced the perpetually-grouchy snow leopard to allow him that liberty, Madara had no idea – Izuna lifted his head just enough for his voice to be heard clearly. “We’re shinobi; killing is the beginning and the end of our job description.” 

“I think even civilians would do the same,” Hashirama said. “They might not have the means to cause as much damage, but they definitely would _want_ to do exactly as we have if someone important to them had been taken and hurt like Tobirama has been.” Raising his arm, he brushed his fingers against a branch of a tree he passed. A few leaves fell upon his head.

Madara wondered if Hashirama felt uncomfortable in this place where plants were few and far between, especially since the emptiness of the landscape felt unnatural. Mountains were usually _covered_ in forests, and even if they were not, there would at least be rich, terraced fields to make use of the fertile soils that lined the slopes of a mountain range.

There was nothing like that, here. Even grass was rare, and the few patches they had seen were dotted with yellowing blades. The weather, too, was strange: it was only newly-autumn, but the frost in the air felt far more like the cold, dry bite of winter.

“Good thing that civilians have no such means, then,” Izuna said, his wry voice dragging Madara back out of his own head. “Shinobi would been in great danger if they could, because the harm done to civilians is mostly by shinobi.”

“If civilians were capable of moulding and manipulating chakra,” Hashirama said contemplatively, “would shinobi still be paid for killing them? Or would there just be even more war, if there only were combatants?”

“We can’t even say that the war has ended yet, much less that we have built any kind of peace,” Izuna drawled in reply, “and you’re talking about a world in perpetual war?”

Lowering his head, Madara let out a long breath. No, he thought grimly to himself, they couldn’t make claim to any form of peace at all. Especially not after what they had just done. No matter how casually Hashirama tried to dismiss their actions to Matatabi, Madara knew that they might as well have written, sent, and signed a declaration of war, and it would be a war like none witnessed before.

If Yamagakure was supposed to be the shinobi village of the Land of Lightning, it meant that he and Hashirama had just slaughtered members of multiple clans. The next war might very well be between countries instead of clans.

And there would be a war. Madara couldn’t imagine any way in which the Lightning Daimyo could be dissuaded from calling his remaining shinobi to arms to go against their still-unnamed village the moment he saw what happened to Yamagakure. And when that happened…

Well, their village still consisted of only the Senju and the Uchiha. 

Grimly, Madara wondered if signing the peace agreement and building the village wasn’t a road that led them not towards peace, but to destruction instead.

“Mito will think of something,” Hashirama said, steady voice cutting through the heavy air. “We won’t go to war again.”

“Didn’t your wife say herself that there are limits in what she can do?” Madara couldn’t help but ask. “She hasn’t managed to find a way to convince the other clans to join the village without those pesky conditions that we can’t agree to, remember?”

“Do I want to know?” Izuna piped up.

“The other clans have said that they would join the village,” Madara explained quickly, “but only on the Akimichi’s behest. Not because of the Senju or the Uchiha. Much less for the sake of the village itself.”

“Alright,” Izuna said, voice muffled as he flopped face-down into Kazuyuki’s fur again. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Mito will figure it out,” Hashirama repeated, gaze heavy as he turned to face Madara. “And she’ll find a way to get the other clans to join, too.”

Madara remembered the tight line of Mito’s lips and creases carved into their edges, both barely hidden by her teacup, when she admitted that she could not gain the upper-hand over the Akimichi. He remembered the tears lingering at the corners of those usually-sharp eyes when she had made him promise to ensure that Hashirama stayed human.

He had no doubt that Hashirama had seen those signs of Mito’s weaknesses. But he also remembered how his friend had told him that Mito had taken over his place as the main political power of the Senju, because Mito was far better at it than he was. Now, he looked at Hashirama, he wondered:

When and where had Mito learned to be as underhanded as she was? And hadn’t Mito herself said that she was fortunate, for her marriage allowed her cunning and slyness to be a boon and not a curse?

Had Hashirama taken one look at all that she was picking up, and decided to leave the political domain to her so that she could be useful according to the Senju’s fucked-up traditions? If he had, then…

How tightly was Hashirama clinging to the thought of his wife’s immeasurable capabilities? How much of her vulnerabilities had Mito hidden from even her husband, if only because it was the only way she could keep hold of her own identity within the Senju? How much had Hashirama refused to either learn more about politics or call her out on her weaknesses, so as to not put her into danger of being his wife, and only his wife?

Thinking about it made his head hurt. Pushing the thoughts away, Madara heaved a sigh. “I’ll take your word for it,” he told Hashirama, and made the effort to not grimace at that blindingly-false smile he received in return.

He turned to look at the smoking ruins of the village again. Izuna had sworn that he had left Amaterasu burning even after the creature that had manipulated him and the monster who Madara had supposedly summoned had both been burned to ash. There was no other clan, no other _shinobi_ even, who could control fire that was black in colour, much less fire that continued to burn without being constantly fed fuel or chakra. It would be child’s play to link the destruction of Yamagakure back to him and Izuna; back to the Uchiha. Added to the traces of mokuton that Madara had no doubts that Hashirama had left behind…

Unless Mito could pull off a miracle, war would be knocking on their doorstep in the matter of months. That, Madara knew from experience, wasn’t nearly enough time for anyone to get used to any kind of vision loss, much less complete blindness.

How ironic, he almost laughed; in their efforts to enact vengeance for and protect Tobirama, they might have just placed him in greater danger.

“…tabi.”

His head snapped towards Matatabi. Was that… Had he just heard Tobirama’s voice? His hand clenched over Mifuyu’s fur.

Though he knew he shouldn’t – his eyes had become monstrous, and his skin was as soaked with blood as Hashirama’s clothes – Madara’s body moved before he could stop himself. Rolling off Mifuyu’s back, he set off on a running leap that took him to the top of Matatabi’s. The great beast snapped her fangs at him in warning, but Madara could only spare a pleading stroke down her back – with half a second to marvel that her blue flames weren’t already burning him to a crisp – before turning his gaze to Tobirama. 

White lashes fluttered. Madara’s breath hitched, and he slid his free arm underneath Tobirama’s neck, cradling the younger man to his own chest.

This close, he could smell the hints of Matatabi on Tobirama: burning sulphur lingered around her so much so that Madara’s nose was already deadened to the smell after hours in her company, but there was a hint of it in Tobirama’s hair. The scent, Madara thought, wild and wry both, reminded him of a hot spring.

“Tobirama,” Hashirama whispered, having appeared on Tobirama’s other side. Lightning-coloured flames rippled beneath their knees as Matatabi made herself bigger to accommodate both of their bodies.

Madara took notice of those only peripherally. His attention was fixed upon Tobirama, counting each shallow breath as they deepened and increased in volume.

Reaching out, Hashirama’s fingers tangled around his brother’s limp ones. Madara stared at the image they made: Hashirama’s darkly-tanned skin contrasted with Tobirama’s paper-pale hands. He could see the quiet thrum of Tobirama’s pulse as Hashirama turned his brother’s hand around to stroke his thumb over the lines of the bones, shoulders hunching and eyes falling shut.

As Hashirama’s harsh breaths filled the air, Tobirama’s lips parted. His eyes moved beneath still-closed lids.

Pulling at his own clothes, Madara found the sealing scroll he kept his things. He nearly tore the heavy paper when he broke the seal to retrieve the waterskin, and his hands trembled so much when bringing the mouth against Tobirama’s lips that he nearly spilled the contents everywhere. His new eyes caught in perfect detail the droplets of water that trailed down Tobirama’s chin to his neck as he tried to breathe, and each one of them was like a fist shoving past his chest to squeeze his heart. 

“You’re awake.” Unable to keep himself from shaking, he pressed his mouth against Tobirama’s temple. “You don’t have to open your eyes, or—”

His words died in his throat. Because Tobirama _had_, and— 

The shade of Tobirama’s eyes had always reminded Madara of precious red crystals that came from over the great oceans, those that glittered and glimmered in the sun with a life that made them seem greater and grander than mere stone. When he had tried to describe those rubies to Izuna as a child newly-returned from the capital, he had said that they were paler than crimson blood, their shades closer to scarlet than the vermillion of the Sharingan. 

Tobirama’s eyes resembled those almost exactly. Or, rather, they used to.

Now they were still red, but there was a grey-white film over them. The milky paleness of, Madara swallowed to calm his instinctive horror, blindness.

“Your eyes.” That wasn’t his own voice; it was _Tobirama’s_. Madara stared as one of Tobirama’s horribly-cold hand raised, hovering in the air before settling on Madara’s shoulder. “What have you done to your _eyes_?” 

His skin felt like a corpse’s, but there was a tight urgency in his voice that made it sound alive. And—

“Anija,” Tobirama sounded _exasperated_ now. He had wrenched his hand out of Hashirama’s grasp, and had clenched his fingers around his older brother’s sleeve, tugging on it and crumpling the filthy cloth even more. “You should know by now to clean up and change after a fight,” he scolded. “Why didn’t you?” 

Madara sucked in a long breath through his teeth so he wouldn’t sob in relief. On Tobirama’s other side, tears spilled down Hashirama’s squeezed-shut eyes, and he didn’t say a word.

“That’s what I should ask,” Madara barely managed to gasp up. Still holding onto Tobirama’s hand, he tried to brush over those pale cheeks with his fingers. “What did they do to you, Tobirama? What have they done to _your_ eyes that you have— that you—

White lashes brushed over pale cheeks as Tobirama blinked. If he wasn’t lying on Madara’s arm, he would’ve tilted his head.

“Oh,” he said. “Is that why you two are so upset?” He paused. “Please calm yourselves.”

“Are we hurting you?” Madara asked, immediately frantic. “Is it too much—”

“Both of you are clearly extremely upset,” Tobirama cut him off. “I do not need my chakra sense to know it.”

Did not need— Madara’s eyes darted down. 

He had noticed the ink on Tobirama’s arms, of course – black as they were, they stood out stark against his skin – but he had tried to dismiss them because Matatabi hadn’t said much about it and Madara’s knowledge of seals was still too rudimentary to come close to deciphering what they were. But now that he was looking, properly looking, he could—

The air shifted, _shuddered_. Suddenly, he was no longer looking at Tobirama’s arms, but his bones and muscles and blood vessels and chakra coils. Madara clamped down his jaw, nearly biting off his own tongue in an effort to not yelp or scream or fling himself off Matatabi’s back. Because—

Chakra coils he was used to – the Sharingan gave him the same view – but the world was always washed with red, cutting off the sharpness of the vision. Now he could see everything with crystal-sharp clarity, down to rush of blood over a valve inside Tobirama’s wrist that made his skin jump. His pulse, Madara realised. He could see his pulse—

Not only that, he could see the effects of the seals, now. The ink was black but its effects weren’t nearly as obvious. Madara squinted, staring even harder as he tried to gain some control over the Rinnegan he wasn’t even supposed to have, trying to figure it out. Here, the seal sank underneath the skin to twist around the coils, and what they were doing there was—

“Water!” Madara shrieked, digging his fingers into Matatabi’s fur so as to not fall off as he jerked himself back. “I need water to get these seals off—” 

“Wait—” Tobirama started.

Too late; a hand had grabbed Madara’s waterskin, and dumped the entirety of its contents over Tobirama’s arms.

“The ink is waterproof,” Tobirama finished. Eyes slipping back shut, he heaved a loud exhale as he shook his head. “Water will not wash it off.”

“Oh,” Hashirama said. He shook the waterskin he was holding a few times. Madara watched, fascinated despite himself, as the droplets fell onto Tobirama’s forearm, curved around his wrist, and joined the others in dripping onto Matatabi’s back. They didn’t sizzle and disappear when they caught the blue flames, instead—

There was a sudden, loud hiss. Then Madara’s body was lunging forward, his head smacking against Hashirama’s as both of them wrapped themselves around Tobirama. Then they were falling as Matatabi _rolled _onto her side, body thumping hard against sparse grass as she—

Dumped all three of them on the ground.

When Madara gaped at her, insulted beyond measure, Matatabi growled and let out a huff.

“I have been patient,” she said, returning back to stand on four paws even as her mismatched eyes met Madara’s squarely. “I have taken into account your worry over Tobirama, and I have allowed liberties. And that is how you repay me?”

Matatabi whirled to turn her back on them. Then, before anyone could say a word – much less stop her – she shrunk down to the size of a housecat, and then strode away with both tails whipping through the air with clear annoyance and offence.

Cats, Madara remembered faintly, _really_ hated water. He blinked.

“Well,” Izuna’s voice rang out from behind them. “That was a great show of intelligence there, Nii-san, Hashirama.”

“Ow,” Hashirama said, rubbing at his temple. “You have a _really_ hard head, Madara.”

“Yours is even worse,” Madara retorted absentmindedly as he shoved Hashirama out of the way so he could take Tobirama’s arms again. He could see everything underneath his skin – was that a lymph node? – but he tried to focus on only the chakra coils. “These seals here are suppressing Tobirama’s chakra, and—”

“The Sharingan hasn’t been activated,” Tobirama said, clearly distracted as he reached out a hand to cup Madara’s chin, thumb running over the corner of one eye. “But you can see my chakra coils, so—”

“Stop doing that!” Madara snapped. When Tobirama made to pull his hand away, Madara nearly grabbed him by biting his sleeve. “I don’t mean to stop touching me! I meant to stop forcing your chakra out of the seals, because it’s damaging your coils—”

“Is it a similar dojutsu?” Tobirama asked, index finger now poking around Madara’s face. “Does the Sharingan have a further evolution beyond the Mangekyou that the clan has never made public?”

A tic was starting to develop on Madara’s brow. He turned his head and closed his teeth over Tobirama’s prodding finger. “Stop trying to sense my eyes,” he snarled, and shook his head a little to emphasise the point.

“Uh,” Hashirama said. Madara ignored him.

“But this is fascinating,” Tobirama said, now using his other hand in an attempt to continue examining Madara’s eyes. “I have never heard of the Sharingan going beyond the Mangekyou, and there weren’t any signs of that being a possibility when I last looked at your eyes—”

Still with Tobirama’s finger in his mouth, Madara reached out a hand and smacked it over his beloved concubine’s lips. Tobirama’s brows creased, clearly offended, and Madara shifted his grip so he was grasping Tobirama’s chin between thumb and index finger. “If I let you examine my eyes later, _much_ later once we have figured out all that’s going on, will you stop trying to do it now and damaging yourself?” 

He tried to make it sound like a request, but he had a sinking feeling that his tone made it a demand.

Tobirama didn’t seem to notice, however. “I am not damaging myself,” he protested, scrunching up his face with indignation and displeasure.

“I can _see_ the effects your efforts are having on your coils,” Madara shot back. “Stop it, let me get these seals off, then we talk about what the fuck has happened since the last time we saw each other. Then,” he took a deep breath, “you can look at my eyes. Okay?”

Silence. Madara was very aware of Hashirama and Izuna’s gazes on him, but he kept his attention on Tobirama instead, trying to make the younger man understand the seriousness of his words by sheer weight of the gaze alone. 

“Does that mean that you and Anija would try to calm yourselves down so your emotions would not be annoying me?” Tobirama asked finally.

“Yes,” Madara said. “Hashirama?”

“Sure,” Hashirama said, sounding like he was trying his best to not laugh. “I’ll do my best to not have inconvenient emotions, Tobirama.”

“Good,” Tobirama nodded solemnly. “Alright, then.”

“I’ll hold you to it,” Madara said. Leaning back, he released Tobirama’s finger from between his teeth, and settled back. “If water doesn’t work, then we need alcohol or oil.” He paused. “I ran out of weapon oil long ago.”

“So have I,” Hashirama added cheerfully. “And if I had alcohol, I would’ve drunk it.”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes at Hashirama’s veritable _list_ of terrible habits, Madara turned, about to ask Izuna if _he_ had thought to replenish his supplies before coming here. Before he could open his mouth, however, he found a ceramic bottle stoppered by cloth-covered wax thrust at his face. 

“Here you go, Nii-san,” Izuna said. With every twitch of his lips, Madara felt the tic above his own brow strengthen. “Before you decide that licking Tobirama’s arm in front of us is a good idea.”

“If water doesn’t work, then why would saliva?” Tobirama asked, sounding confused.

“I find it fascinating,” Izuna drawled, cutting Madara off before he could try to answer Tobirama’s question, “that the first time Nii-san, Tobirama, and oil are involved in the same time, I am there, and I provided the oil.” His lips twitched again. “Right, Hashirama?”

In the middle of handing a torn-off rag to Madara – why he would rather tear up his extra clothes instead of cleaning them, Madara had no idea – Hashirama’s eyes widened.

But it was Tobirama who spoke first: “I don’t understand that comment.”

Grabbing the cloth, Madara tried to turn away. But Hashirama’s eyes had already locked onto him. To Madara’s surprise, his friend didn’t start issuing threats. Instead, his face went through a series of contortions as if he wasn’t quite sure which one to choose to show. Madara took the chance to pour the weapon oil onto the cloth and start rubbing it over Tobirama’s obediently-outstretched arms.

“Of _course_ not,” he said, answering Hashirama’s unspoken but extremely obvious question. “Even if I lack that much self-control, _when_ would we have had the time?” 

“Is this,” Tobirama said, voice dipping lower, “another instance when the conversation is about me, but I am not allowed to know what it is about?”

“Mm,” Madara said, keeping his eyes on Tobirama’s arms. With each matrix that smeared, he could see the twists in Tobirama’s chakra coils slowly loosen. “You’ll get an explanation sooner or later. Much preferably later.”

“Later as in after I have examined your eyes, or during?” Tobirama asked, arch. 

“More like a few months,” Madara muttered, and scrubbed even harder.

“_That_ much later?” Hashirama sounded incredulous. “I mean, it can take literal years, but that was a special case and a completely different set of circumstances.”

What did it say about him, Madara thought wryly to himself, that he understood those extremely oblique words _perfectly_? And what did it say about his and Hashirama’s relationship that he couldn’t even bring himself to react in a comically negative way – like Izuna would – to knowing that Hashirama and Mito took years before they had sex with each other, because now he knew exactly _why_ they would’ve waited?

“It’s not a matter of waiting,” he said softly. “There is simply no need.”

Why would he want to rush Tobirama into further physical intimacy when the feel of his presence was enough to make Madara’s heart beat faster? Why would he need anything more when knowing that Tobirama was alive – even if he wasn’t alright – was enough to loosen the band around Madara’s chest? Why would he need to pin him down onto a bed when Tobirama allowing his touches, when he didn’t even try to clean off the seals himself and instead let Madara do it, already filled him with warmth?

Those acts that Izuna and Hashirama were talking about were strange and unfamiliar to Tobirama, and Madara knew that Tobirama would find those to be terrifying when he couldn’t investigate them by himself to his capabilities. Madara wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ find it within himself, to force him; not when all he wanted to do was to have Tobirama safe in his arms, protected from his scars and reassured that he had no need to do anything to prove himself worthy of existence and affection.

“Ah,” Hashirama said, small smile audible in his voice. “I’m glad.”

“Good,” Madara nodded. He laid the cloth over Tobirama’s arm and stroked it all the way down to pick up the last of the ink before starting on the other arm. “Can we talk about the state of Tobirama’s eyes, now?” 

“Before we do that,” Izuna said, sounding long-suffering, “I would like to lodge a complaint about having to witness the two of you being gross with my own two eyeballs.”

Giving his brother a sidelong glance, Madara snorted. “Better get used to it,” he said. “Because I’m not going to stop.”

“Gross,” Izuna repeated, wrinkling up his nose.

“If we’re making you uncomfortable, Izuna,” Tobirama started, attempting to pull the arm with the seal still on out of Madara’s grasp. Madara tightened his grip, and started scrubbing on the skin.

“Just stay there,” Izuna sighed.

“But—”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” like he usually did when he was suddenly made aware that people might take his words in other ways than how he had meant them, Izuna loosened his hair from its usual tail and started carding through the strands, “but I really like to whine.”

“Because he’s a brat who has been spoiled his entire life,” Madara clarified.

“Whining is,” Izuna raised his voice, scowling at him, “fun and relaxing and everyone should do it as a recreational activity.”

Flinging out a leg, Madara aimed for his brother’s shin. When Izuna yelped and pulled a little too hard at his own hair, Madara grinned at him with his teeth bared. Izuna huffed and rolled his eyes.

It was good that Izuna didn’t _really _mind, Madara thought. Much better that whatever resentment or jealousy he seemed to have harboured against Tobirama was the creature’s influence instead of his own thoughts. 

Because Madara didn’t know what he would do if he had to choose between Tobirama and Izuna. Most likely toss himself into the nearest fire so he wouldn’t have to make a decision, he suspected.

“Oh,” Tobirama said. He seemed to not know what to do for a moment, so Madara turned his attention back to him and tapped his wrist, right above the thrumming pulse he could still see.

“Now that I have you trapped,” he said, “will you _please_ tell me what the bastards who took you had done with your eyes?”

“Nothing,” he said.

“You’re _blind,_” Madara reminded, trying his best to remain calm. He focused back on cleaning Tobirama’s arm. “You weren’t before you went back to Uzushio, _and _nothing from them said that you went blind when you were there, so—” 

“Oh,” Tobirama said again. “That’s because I made sure that Uzushio, especially Hayase-sama, did not notice.”

“What,” Madara said, flat. His voice echoed loudly in his own ears. 

“I made a mistake in one of my experiments,” Tobirama said. His eyes were turned towards the ground, avoiding their gazes even though he obviously couldn’t look at them anymore. “I stayed mostly in my labs after that because there had not been incidents of typhoons, and I saw very few people then because the Uzumaki knew to not disturb me.” He paused. “I was still in the midst of training to fight without being able to see when I was captured.”

His free hand folded on top of his lap. “I did my best to ensure that my captors did not realise that I was fully blind, and I believe that I succeeded.”

Opening his mouth, Madara tried to speak. Nothing came out.

“Will you let me examine _your_ eyes now?” Tobirama continued, sounding impatient of all things. “I need to know what happened to them, Madara. They feel like nothing I have ever felt before, and I can even feel a trace of something like the Hyuuga’s Byakugan in it—” he stopped. 

Because Madara was laughing. He wasn’t sure where the sound had come from, much less put into words exactly why air came so much easier to his lungs after _weeks_ of trying to through tightening ribs. His eyes – those very eyes Tobirama was so fascinated with – burned as he took both of Tobirama’s hands to bury his own face in them. 

“Tobirama,” Hashirama said, and there was an odd note in his voice that Madara could almost identify. “Are you telling me that you were experimenting on yourself again? And, in the process, you _blinded_ yourself?”

“Anija—” Tobirama started.

“I need to know,” Hashirama said, and that note was stronger than ever, ringing sharp through his loud, false cheer. “You see, Madara and I might have completely destroyed the village that kidnapped you. Because we thought that they blinded you.”

“What,” Tobirama said, flat. “Anija, Madara, you— _what_?”

“Destroyed the village!” Madara knew exactly what Hashirama was feeling now. The hysteria in his voice was sharp enough to make _Madara’s _ears ring. “I’m not sure how many people we killed – hundreds, or maybe thousands? – but I don’t think there’s even a soul left alive back there—”

“Anija, how could you—”

“I told you to not experiment on yourself—”

Tobirama made a sound much like a growl, and the only reason why his arms stayed in Madara’s grip instead of being used to gesticulate was because Madara refused to let go. “I _had _to experiment on myself to perfect the seal, Anija!” he protested. “My eyes were _perfect_ for the experiment, and being blinded doesn’t excuse—”

“In what circumstances could experimenting on yourself be considered perfect—” Hashirama’s voice started rising in volume.

“I had to test the seal for its limitations!” Tobirama said, definitely trying to lunge at his brother now. “If it could heal my own eyes, which has always been terrible, then—”

Shifting his grip on Tobirama’s wrists onto one hand, Madara shot out his other one to slap it over Hashirama’s mouth. “Wait,” he commanded. Then he drew back and, using, the same hand, tilted Tobirama’s chin back in his direction. “What do you _mean_, your eyes have always been terrible?” 

Silence. Was that— Was that a _sheepish_ look?

“Madara,” Hashirama said, the hysterical near-rage in his voice fading away to be replaced by something far more irritating, “are you telling me that you don’t know?”

“What,” Madara gritted out, “am I supposed to know?”

“Tobirama’s eyes have always been bad,” Hashirama revealed, sounding like he was surprised that Madara had no idea. “Why do you think his handwriting is such an illegible scrawl? Or why he never looks anyone in the eye? Or why he has this habit of nearly touching his nose to the paper whenever he writes? Or—”

“Anija!” Tobirama cried. The ashen colour of his face was much better now; in fact, he looked almost… Was he _blushing_? Madara had never seen his skin turn pink like this, not even when they had been in that room in Uzushio together, and now it was, and the reason of it was—

“Are you telling me,” Madara fixed his gaze on Tobirama with enough force to ensure that the younger man could feel it even if he couldn’t see it, “that your eyes have always been bad, and you used them for your experiments _because _they were bad?” He waited for Tobirama’s nod.

“As a result,” Madara managed to force out, “you lost your sight entirely.”

“That is an oversimplified explanation,” Tobirama grumbled. “But I suppose that it will do.”

Madara stared. Was that expression— was this how Tobirama looked when he _sulked_? 

“Uh,” Izuna said, voice floating down from where he was likely still on Kazuyuki’s back, “I had no idea that his eyes were bad either. Not that anyone is asking me exactly, but I thought all of you would like to know.”

Silence descended among them again. No, there was— was that muffled laughter? Madara refused to turn to look.

“So,” Hashirama said, voice trembling now, “you’re saying, Izuna, that neither you nor Madara had any idea about Tobirama’s bad eyesight? Even after the months he has lived among all of you? Even though the Uchiha are supposed to be observant people who should notice what is in front of their eyes? In front of the _Sharingan_?”

It sounded so much worse when he put it that way.

“And you’re saying,” Hashirama continued, clearly trying to not laugh, “that you never mentioned it to them after all those months, Tobirama? Even though you clearly trust them?”

“It,” Tobirama started. “It just never came up.”

“Bullshit,” Madara couldn’t stop himself from blurting out. 

“It wasn’t relevant—” Tobirama corrected.

“You had your fingers jammed into _my_ eyes!” Despite knowing that Tobirama had been terribly injured – his chakra coils might not be strangled by the suppression seals anymore, but they weren’t back at full capacity either, and that wasn’t taking into account the other damage Madara could see – Madara was terribly tempted to start shaking him. “You made an entire project out of fixing my eyes—”

“Fixing— Nii-san, is there something wrong with _your_ eyes that you really should have told me about?” Izuna cut in. His voice had a casual tone that Madara _knew_ was anything but, because Izuna was overdramatic when he was joking around.

He would deal with his brother later. “And throughout all that,” he practically barked, gaze fixed on Tobirama, “you never saw fit to tell me that you have problems with your vision, either?”

“Wait a fucking minute—” Izuna started. Madara flung out a hand to shove against Izuna’s face when his brother tried to get between the two of them. 

“Not to mention all of the times I made comments about your eyes—” Madara continued.

“It wasn’t _relevant_!” Tobirama insisted, tugging on his own wrists in earnest now. “The fact that neither of you noticed meant that it doesn’t matter—”

Madara didn’t let him; Tobirama wouldn’t be using physical force if he was truly objecting to Madara trapping him. “You never thought that it’s something that I’d just like to know—”

“My eyes have always been bad and I’ve learned long ago to work despite them,” Tobirama steamrolled over him, speaking faster and louder than Madara had ever heard him. “The only relevance this information has to the current situation is—”

“It’s not a matter of relevance!” Izuna yelled, clawing at Madara’s wrist.

“—is that you and Anija _destroyed_ a village!” Tobirama shouted. He finally forced himself free, but the only use he had for his hands was to flap them at Madara and Hashirama’s directions “We’re supposed to be working towards peace, a _permanent _peace—”

“I’m way more concerned about the fact that _both_ of you have been keeping important facts about your _eyes_ from me!” Izuna seemed to take Tobirama’s loudness as a challenge, because he was now screaming.

Now with both hands free, Madara grabbed his brother by the collar and shoved him face-first onto the ground. Izuna yelped when he got a mouthful of dirt, strands of hair sprawling all over him, and Madara rapped on the back of his skull for a few moments before he whirled back to Tobirama. But he didn’t have a chance to speak.

“The _most_ important thing here,” Hashirama said, shoving his face barely an inch from Madara’s, “is that Tobirama is experimenting on himself! Are you not concerned about that?”

“I am concerned!” Madara practically screeched into his friend’s face. “I am concerned about a great deal!”

Hashirama opened his mouth. But before he could say a word, something _exploded_ a few metres from them.

Slowly, Madara turned to face the tree that was suddenly on fire. “Izuna…” he growled under his breath.

“Not me,” Izuna said, lifting up his head. He wiped pieces of soil away from his face as he sat back up. “I didn’t do that.”

“Matatabi,” Tobirama said shortly. 

What? The great beast did that? 

Madara stared at the flaming tree again. One of the branches snapped off and fell onto the ground. Sparks sprayed outwards, and the few valiant blades of grass that had managed to grow despite Kumo’s terrible soil conditions started burning as well.

Then, abruptly, the flames died. Flecks of ash danced dizzily in the light breeze before falling back onto the ground. 

“I think she thinks that we’re being too loud,” Tobirama said, sounding contemplative.

For someone who wasn’t even within their field of vision, Madara thought, Matatabi was being extremely opinionated about what was going on.

“Alright,” Izuna said. “Ignoring the fact that a tree just spontaneously caught fire because a cat the size of a plantation got pissed at us—”

“She’s a cat?” Tobirama blinked.

“Yes,” Izuna said, flapping a hand in Tobirama’s direction. “As I was _saying_, I am still pissed that neither you nor Tobirama told me that you were going blind, Nii-san.” He turned his gaze to Madara, lips curved up into a tight smile.

“I wasn’t_ going_ blind, “Tobirama insisted. “My eyes had been bad since I was _born_.”

“You,” Izuna jabbed a finger in front of Tobirama’s face, “are being pedantic on purpose and deliberately missing the point!”

“Whatever your point is,” Tobirama snapped back, cloudy red eyes fixed somewhere above Izuna’s left shoulder, “it isn’t nearly as important as Anija and Madara destroying an entire village’s worth of shinobi! Izuna—”

“If you’re going to tell me that I should’ve stopped them,” Izuna snapped, “I’m going to laugh in your face.” 

Tobirama clicked his mouth shut. His jaw clenched in, Madara suspected, what should be an expression of frustration and anger, but instead just made him look mulish and adorable instead.

Wait, no. He was angry at Tobirama. He had to _stay_ angry at Tobirama.

“May I,” a new voice interjected, “clarify the situation here for the four of you?”

When Madara turned, he realised that Mifuyu had laid down on the ground, her head between two massive paws. Those ice-blue eyes trained on them were glittering with obvious mirth, and Madara let out slow breaths so he wouldn’t be tempted to start yelling again. Or, worse still, throw a punch in her direction. 

Because it was now very obvious that the muffled laughter he had been hearing came from _her_.

“Please,” Hashirama said. He sat back up – when had he ended up flat on his back? Why did he like to do that so much? – before grabbing a handful of his own hair to flap it in her direction. “I’d like to get back to the village at some point.” Pieces of soil and tiny pebbles fell from Hashirama’s thick strands. 

“Mm,” Mifuyu nodded. Her gaze shifted from Hashirama to Tobirama, and her whiskers twitched on one side as she bared a fang. “I have known my summoner since he was a cub, and his eyesight had never been good. And I’m not judging by a leopard’s standards, either.”

Izuna opened his mouth. Madara slapped a hand over it because they were _finally_ going to get some information.

“He does not think it to be an important fact, because it has always been this way,” Mifuyu continued. “But weeks before he was taken by the shinobi of Yamagakure, he summoned me. By then, his sight was entirely gone.”

“Alright,” Hashirama said, turning a smile to Tobirama that was edged with shadows. “_Why_ did you think it a good idea for you to perform experiments on yourself, Tobirama?” He paused. “That’s a question. Not an order for you to answer.”

“There does not seem to be a difference, Anija,” Tobirama said. When Hashirama continued to stare at him, arms crossed and unspeaking, Tobirama sighed. “I isolated the regenerative properties of your mokuton, and created a seal that could replicate them,” he said. “I had to test its limitations, and my own eyes are the best candidate.”

“Why?” The cock of Hashirama’s head made him look like a curious bird, but Madara knew him well enough by now to know that Hashirama was barely keeping a lid on his temper. 

He started counting from a thousand backwards in his own head, because he couldn’t lose it if Hashirama did. The ruins of what used to be Yamagakure made it _extremely _clear that terrible things happened when he and Hashirama were angry at the same time, and he didn’t think he could trust Hashirama to stay calm at this point.

“The process that the mokuton uses to heal you is one that is complicated and involves many components,” Tobirama started, pulling Madara’s attention back to him, “but, essentially, it replicates healthy cells.” He paused.

Hashirama nodded. Then he realised how useless that movement was, and said, “Mm,” instead.

“My eyes do not have healthy cells,” Tobirama continued. “I needed to test if the seal would be able to heal them despite that fact.” He paused, shrugging. “It could not.”

“Was that,” Madara said, carefully keeping his voice even, “how you ended up blinding yourself?”

“Essentially,” Tobirama nodded.

“So,” Madara continued, clenching soil between his fingers so he didn’t start to shake Tobirama by the collar, “you were trying to create a seal that can heal the eyes of any Uchiha adversely affected by the Sharingan and the Mangekyou—” Izuna opened his mouth, obviously about to speak, and Madara grabbed his cheeks and squashed them to shut him up, “—and you ended up blinding yourself because of those efforts.”

“No,” Tobirama shook his head. “I made a mistake.”

“I don’t see the difference,” Madara said, eyes narrowing despite himself.

“You implied that I deliberately blinded myself in order to test the seal,” Tobirama pointed out. “That was not what happened.”

“Clarify for me,” Madara clawed desperately for patience, “what exactly _is_ the difference?” 

“The seal works perfectly,” Tobirama said. “But I overloaded it with too much chakra.” One of Tobirama’s fingers tapped on the ground, coils at the tips flaring bright as he sensed Madara’s confusion. He sighed.

“The cells were replicated, but as none of them were healthy, my vision didn’t improve. When I shoved more chakra into the seal, it acted as it should, increasing the cell count until…” He hesitated.

Madara reached out to touch him, to understand how he felt. Then he realised he didn’t need to, because he could see the minute twitches in Tobirama’s muscles and the spikes in his chakra coils. 

He really shouldn’t be surprised that Tobirama would try to hide his fear from them. He really should have predicted it.

Hashirama opened his mouth. But before he could say a word, Madara smacked him on the jaw with two fingers of one hand. When Hashirama’s eyes darted over to him, Madara shook his head. At the same time, he curled his hand around Tobirama’s bicep. 

Tobirama jerked at the touch. His lips parted, clearly about to refuse, but Madara tugged silently. After a moment, he could feel the spikes in Tobirama’s chakra ease out, and he nodded. 

Shifting on the ground, Madara wrapped both arms around his beloved concubine. Tobirama’s eyes slipped shut as he allowed himself to be moved, leaning back to settle against Madara’s chest the moment his back was aligned with it. Madara tilted his head to the side – Tobirama had grown _again_ in the two months since they had last seen each other, and he didn’t need to tilt his head _down _anymore – and brushed a soft kiss over his cheek.

Izuna mouthed, “_Gross_.” Madara ignored him.

“Go on,” Madara said.

Nodding, Tobirama swallowed. “When the number of cells increased to a level that was too great for the oxygen in my blood to feed them,” Tobirama said, face turned towards the remnants of the charred tree that Matatabi had burnt, “all of them died.”

Finding one of Tobirama’s hands, Madara tangled their fingers together and squeezed.

“Hold on, Tobirama,” Madara interrupted. “You can explain more about the seal later.” He stroked his free hand over Tobirama’s hair as he turned his attention back to Mifuyu. “You didn’t tell me that Tobirama was blind when he was taken,” he pointed out.

“My summoner told me to tell no one,” Mifuyu said, irritatingly serene. Beside her, pacing as he impatiently waited, Kazuyuki snorted. “I could not predict that honouring my promise to him would end up with the destruction of an entire village.”

“Madara,” Tobirama said, “Anija, how _did_ that happen?” His hand, Madara noted, had stopped its minute trembling. Madara kept squeezing it anyway. 

“It wasn’t entirely their fault that the village was destroyed,” Izuna said, leaning back on his hands with his still-loose hair spilling over one shoulder. “Matatabi helped, too,” he grinned. 

“Matatabi’s actions are easily understood,” Tobirama said. “She was very angry about having been captured and imprisoned, and even more furious at the fact that the person who created the seals that allowed for the shinobi to do so wasn’t a person at all.”

Izuna’s eyes narrowed. “Are you telling me,” he said slowly, “that not only are there seals that can capture and imprison something as powerful as Matatabi, but the creature that controlled me was the one was the one who created them?”

“Based upon my and Matatabi’s investigation, that is the likeliest hypothesis,” Tobirama nodded.

“Investigation?” Hashirama blinked. “What investigation?”

“Matatabi and me worked together to break out of our cell, and then to destroy the building that the cell was in,” Tobirama explained. “In between those two events, I scanned the village with my chakra sense. I felt no hints of Uzushio shinobi, and the Land of Lightning had neither famous seal-masters nor any history in using seals except for those they bought from Uzushio.” 

“That doesn’t explain—” Izuna started.

Hashirama held up a hand. “Let him finish, Izuna,” he said, gaze still fixed on his brother.

“Alright,” Izuna said, pushing forward with his hands and resting his elbows on his knees as he shifted to sit cross-legged on the ground. “Go on, Tobirama.”

“Thank you,” Tobirama said, dry. “In any case, I noticed an anomaly when I scanned the village; the same one that I had felt before. Given that the creature seems to be able to infiltrate everywhere, and _has_ been known to have infiltrated Uzushio, it is possible that it had absorbed sealing knowledge from the island and created the seal.” He swept out the hand not help by Madara.

“All of this is, of course, conjecture and circumstantial evidence. We might still be able to find the true seal-master later on and question him properly on how those seals came about.” A pause. “That is, of course, if he hadn’t died as a result of your actions.”

Madara opened his mouth, about to protest the pointed accusation woven in Tobirama’s words. But Hashirama was already speaking.

“Well, I hope that he’s dead,” he said, shrugging. “We’d have to deal with the possibility of other countries trying to capture Matatabi, or others like her, if the seal-maker has escaped.” He dragged a hand through his hair, shedding more flakes of fried blood.

“I’d rather not.”

Much as Madara hated to agree with Hashirama about anything, much less important strategies concerning the village, he had to admit that Hashirama was entirely right. Better that the seal-maker, whoever or whatever he was, had died, and brought his inventions with him into the depths of hell.

“But—” Tobirama began. 

“In any case,” Hashirama cut him off, raising a hand, “we’ve settled the issues of the seals on Tobirama’s arms, the cause of his blindness, the village being destroyed.” The idiot was ticking off his fingers; Madara resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Is there anything we have to settle before we start making our way back to the village?”

“Ah, Anija,” Tobirama started. “If you are worried for the village, we can use my Hiraishin—”

“No,” Madara cut him off before he could even finish his sentence.

A muscle on Tobirama’s jaw twitched. “My ability to mould chakra has returned,” he argued, turning his head to stare somewhere above Madara’s head, “and the Hiraishin is the fastest and most efficient way of travel—” 

“And where is the closest marking you’ve made, Tobirama?” Madara retorted. “Have you ever jumped that far in one shot?”

Tobirama shook his head. “No, but theoretically—” he stopped, and let out a long breath when Madara tapped, pointed but light, at the corner of one of his now-blind eyes. “The Hiraishin went through _plenty_ of testing. The circumstances are completely different.”

“But the distance from here to the next marker is that between the Land of Lightning and Uzushio,” Madara reasoned, “and that is far, far greater than _any _distance you have tried to jump using the Hiraishin.” When Tobirama still looked mulish, he tried another tact. “You won’t be carrying only yourself, but all of us as well. I’d really not be lost in some weird inter-dimensional space.”

“The space that the Hiraishin travels through is perfectly safe,” Tobirama refuted as if on automatic. “But if you’re worried about your and Izuna’s safety, Madara, I can make the first trip myself.”

“Then if you get lost, we’ll have to find you again, because we came here to bring you home,” Madara told him, amused despite himself. “And, this time, it’ll be even worse because we won’t even know where to start. None of us here know anything about seals, remember?”

As far as the Hiraishin was concerned, that wasn’t a lie: Madara _still_ couldn’t even recognise the various components of the seal that Tobirama was using for it, much less understand how all of them worked in tandem. If something went wrong with the Hiraishin, Madara wouldn’t even know how to begin fixing it.

Besides, he glanced to the side, if Tobirama vanished again, he might not be able to keep his promise to Mito to keep Hashirama sane. 

White lashes brushed over a pale cheek – much better now, more pink than grey even though the flush had long faded – before Tobirama sighed, sounding beleaguered. “Fine,” he said, lips flattening in a way that made it very clear that he was unhappy with the decision. “But that brings me to the next point.”

His chakra spiked again. Madara settled both arms around his chest and waist again, and pressed his lips, soft but firm, against his temple. He tried to not feel too much triumph when Tobirama calmed immediately.

“Once again,” Tobirama said, “I have to apologise. I should’ve been able to free myself, or not be captured in the first place, instead of—”

“Nope,” this time, Madara softened the interruption with a smacking kiss against a cheek. “Those apologies are not allowed.” When Tobirama opened his mouth to protest, Madara placed a lingering finger on a pale bottom lip. “Even if you escaped on your own, you would’ve still found us waiting for you outside the gates of that village. Because we would’ve come for you, no matter what.”

“Actually, I came for that gods-forsaken creature that mind-controlled me,” Izuna corrected cheerfully. “But sure, I came for you, too.”

Madara smacked him across the back of the skull again without looking. “We came for you,” he murmured into Tobirama’s ear. “You managed the near-impossible by befriending the chakra beast who, I’m sure, was meant to kill you. Not only that, you worked _with _her to get both of you out of your cell, and figured out who made the seals that captured her in the first place with your chakra sense while having suppression seals all over you.”

Tugging lightly on white strands, Madara brushed his lips lightly over the corner of Tobirama’s mouth. “You did everything you could and accomplished a great deal. That has nothing to do with us coming to you. We will _always_ come for you.”

“Oh,” Tobirama said, ducking his head down so much that his chin pressed against the hollow between his too-sharp collarbones. “But I shouldn’t have been captured in the first place—” 

“It is not weakness to have been captured,” Madara said firmly. “Especially when you are still getting used to one of your senses being lost to you.”

“My eyes have never been good,” Tobirama said, seeming to talk to himself more than Madara now. “I should’ve been able to learn to fight without my sight faster. I should’ve—” He let out a shuddering sigh when Madara stroked a thumb over his cheekbone. “I can’t be an active shinobi like this, Madara, I can’t—”

Izuna snorted, the sound loud enough to cut through the suddenly-heavy air. “Oh _please_,” he drawled. “If there’s anyone who can be deadly even when blind, it’s _you_.” He crossed his arms, eyes fixed on Tobirama. “And I’m talking as someone who has fought against you for years.”

Tobirama’s eyes remained downcast. He started to shake his head.

Shifting his hand, Madara brushed the back of his knuckles over a pale cheek before he took his chin gently and jerked it back up. “You can learn, and you _will_ learn,” he said. “And the time you take will _not_ be time you’re wasting. You will _not_ be thought of as useless. Expending your effort in learning is an _achievement_.” To emphasise the point, he pressed a kiss to the tip of Tobirama’s nose.

Hashirama made a sound, a sharply-indrawn breath that ended in a choke. Madara ignored him.

Because the slow flush crawling up Tobirama’s neck was far more fascinating. Madara stared at it, and almost allowed himself to smile at his next words: “When did you start reading my mind, Madara?”

_When your brother told me exactly what your clan is like and what your father did to the two of you_, Madara thought, and barely managed to bite the words back in time. He couldn’t tell Tobirama that he knew exactly what the Senju was like; not when he still wasn’t sure if Tobirama could understand that what he had gone through was wrong and horrific and traumatising.

And when he did tell him, he wouldn’t do it while Hashirama, Izuna, and Tobirama’s summons were present. It would only be when he was alone. If only so Tobirama could focus on him and him alone. Without having to worry about anyone else’s reactions.

“What are you talking about?” he asked archly instead. “I’ve always been able to read minds.” He leaned forward and whispered, “It’s a secret ability of the Mangekyou.”

There was a moment when Tobirama cocked his head. Madara would’ve thought Tobirama to have actually believed him – which would be a massive surprise, because Tobirama should be able to tell when Madara was joking by now – when Tobirama started to frown.

“Your Mangekyou still isn’t activated,” he said. “So that can’t be it.”

Madara opened his mouth, about to tell him that he was _joking_, when Izuna interrupted. 

“Oh,” his little brother said, voice bright in a way that Madara had long learned to dread. “Are we going to talk about Nii-san having the Rinnegan, now?”

“The Rinnegan?” Hashirama repeated. He had returned to lying flat on the ground, and was now flapping his sleeve over his own face and scattering flakes of dried blood everywhere. He stared at Madara, cocking his head. “So, his purple swirly eye-things have a name?” 

“Purple swirly eye-things,” Izuna repeated, voice very flat. “A legendary dojutsu, one said to be owned by the Sage of Six Paths himself, and you call them _purple swirly eye-things_.”

“But that’s what they look like!” Hashirama protested, sitting up with his hands spread out, scattering dried blood everywhere. “I get dizzy trying to look at them even now because they’re so—”

“Stop before I—”

“_Purple and swirly_,” Hashirama finished, grinning widely.

Izuna made a low growl underneath his throat and swung his arm. Hashirama rolled with the punch on his shoulder, flopping onto his back again as he let out a loud bray of a laugh.

“Anija,” Tobirama sighed. “This is a serious matter. Madara’s eyes have transmogrified into something that no one outside of legends have ever been known to own, and…” he hesitated for a moment. “You don’t know why?”

“I don’t,” Madara said. He didn’t _want_ to know.

“So, Nii-san,” Izuna said, voice gaining a sly edge, “what do you feel about gaining the Rinnegan?”

“Did I?” Madara asked rhetorically. “I don’t remember getting it.”

“Unless your Mangekyou gained new abilities to summon a horrific monster,” Hashirama drawled, lifting his arms to start ticking his fingers off_ again_, “while creating a massive force that uproots even _my_ trees…” He cocked his head to the side. “I know you don’t like mirrors, Madara, but you have to _know_ that your eyes have definitely changed.”

“I—” Madara started.

“My Sharingan recorded the entire event,” Izuna cut him off ruthlessly. “So, even if you don’t remember getting it, I can show it to you.”

“You could’ve just put me into a genjutsu—” Madara protested.

“Put you into a genjutsu,” Izuna said, flat. “_You_, whose Mangekyou is the most developed of the clan ever since our founder. Be fooled by a genjutsu.” He slapped a hand over his face. “Nii-san, I think your denial has caused brain damage.” 

Letting out a long breath through his teeth, Madara shook his head. “None of that,” he forced out, “can confirm that what I have the Rinnegan. If it is anything of significance at all.”

“Of course it is significant!” Tobirama cried, whipping his head back so quickly that Madara had to dodge so Tobirama’s forehead didn’t smash into his chin. “Your eyes _changed_, Madara, and that’s—”

“Will the memories of someone who has seen the original Rinnegan convince you?”

Snapping his head around, Madara’s eyes widened at the sight of Matatabi strolling back into the clearing. She settled herself next to Tobirama, both tails flicking over his arms before she made a face and scooted a little further away. Madara blinked, wondering about the reaction, before he realised that Tobirama’s arms were still smeared with weapon oil. And that it was all over Madara’s own hands, too.

Hah. It didn’t matter.

“You saw the original,” Izuna said, eyes wide and round as he stared at Matatabi. “You mean you’ve seen the Rinnegan of _the_ _Sage of the Six Paths_.”

“Yes,” Matatabi said, tilting her head back and yawning wide enough to show off rows upon rows of gleaming white fangs. 

“Holy shit,” Izuna muttered. “All the things I thought were legends are now _history_ instead.” Releasing one of his arms from around Tobirama, Madara ruffled his hair. He kept his gaze on Matatabi.

The chakra beast returned his gaze steady. “Those eyes sitting in your sockets right now are definitely the Rinnegan,” she said. “I can tell you that with absolute certainty, Tobirama’s Madara.”

Madara opened his mouth, but before he could even say a word, Tobirama flung himself out of Madara’s arms towards Matatabi.

“Matatabi!” he yelped. “You shouldn’t call him that!”

“Why not?” Matatabi asked, head cocked to the side. “He told me that he would be yours if you agree to it, and given that you’re in his lap, you have clearly agreed.” One of her tails flicked forward, the tip of it brushing across Tobirama’s nose. “What is wrong with calling him by a name that he agreed to?”

“Yeah, Tobirama,” Madara drawled, incredibly amused. “What is wrong with it?”

“Excuse me,” Izuna interrupted before Tobirama could speak, which was a shame because Tobirama was starting to blush again and Madara was _really_ curious about how pink he could get, “can we get back to the fact that you’ve met the Sage of Six Paths?”

“What about it, Other Uchiha?” Matatabi turned lazily to face Izuna.

“Why does Nii-san get called by a name while I am just _the other one_?” Izuna complained immediately. 

“Hey,” Hashirama piped up, “do I get a name, too?”

Eyes darting from Izuna to Hashirama, Matatabi let out another massive yawn. Then she laid her head down on her paws, closed her eyes, and seemed to promptly go straight to sleep.

Silence. Then a long, low chuckle rumbled through the air. When Madara turned his head, he realised that Mifuyu was laughing so hard that she had rolled onto her back, white-furred paws flailing through the air as she howled. Behind her, Kazuyuki’s head was lowered, but the shaking of his shoulders was very much like a human who was caught up in so much mirth that he couldn’t even speak.

“Well,” Madara said, his own lips twitching despite himself, “I guess that answered all of our questions about the Rinnegan, doesn’t it?” 

Grabbing his loose hair with one hair, Izuna tied it casually with the ribbon around his wrist, tossed it over his shoulder, and let out a mighty huff. Madara rolled his eyes at his dramatics.

“If we’re not using the Hiraishin,” Tobirama said slowly, “how are we getting back?”

“I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, Tobirama, since you’re blind and everything,” Izuna said, knees drawn to his chest and chin resting in between them, “but we’re currently surrounded by massive cats, all of whom like you.”

“And only him,” Kazuyuki said, the words nearly inaudible with how much his growl had distorted them. “Now that our summoner is here and awake, I refuse to carry anyone else.”

“Be useless then,” Matatabi said. When Madara turned to face her, he realised that she had cracked her green eye open and was using it to stare Kazuyuki down. “Because Tobirama will be with me.”

“How dare—” Kazuyuki bared his fangs, haunches starting to rise.

“Careful there, little one,” Matatabi drawled. It should be ridiculous that she sounded so threatening, because she was still as big as a housecat while Kazuyuki was at least ten times her current size. But Madara had not forgotten how large she could make herself, and even without that…

Those constantly moving tails were now blurred. Not because they were moving quickly – no, that would be too simple – but the blue flames coating them were _hot_ now, enough to sear the air they touched.

Kazuyuki growled. At the same time as Tobirama tried to tear himself from Madara’s arms again, Kazuyuki leaned down as if he was about to pounce. Then, before either of them could move, Mifuyu was suddenly standing in between Kazuyuki and Matatabi.

“It is the nature of cubs to be foolish,” Mifuyu said, voice even and both ice-blue eyes fixed upon Matatabi’s single open one. “I beg of you to have patience with him.” 

Behind her, Kazuyuki’s eyes widened. Perhaps, Madara thought wryly, he had finally realised that Matatabi might look like a cat, but those blue flames covering her entire body weren’t at all decorative.

“The indigo fires of past centuries have used my tolerance for idiocy as fuel,” Matatabi said, rising to her paws, “and I never had much in the first place.” She tilted her head from one side to the other, as if cracking her neck, before she turned her back and took a few steps.

When she stopped again, she was just barely larger than Mifuyu. “Well?” she demanded, one ear perked upwards as she looked over one shoulder at them. “Are we moving, or are we waiting for the ground to shift this village of yours closer?”

“We’re honoured that you have decided to travel with us, Matatabi-san,” Hashirama said, unfolding his legs and standing.

“Why such politeness, Tobirama’s Anija?” Matatabi drawled, one of her tails flicking towards Hashirama in a move that made Madara think of raised eyebrows. “Are you hoping that I will be more amenable to you changing your mind if you use sweet words? Or have you forgotten that you were the one who invited me with your own tongue?”

“My words were sincere, and still are,” Hashirama said, sweeping an arm over his own waist and bowing over it. “Please forgive me if they seem otherwise to your ears.”

“You behave nothing like what your chakra says you should,” Matatabi said, both eyes now open and fixed upon Hashirama. Then, to Madara’s surprise, she turned to _him_. “Neither do you.”

Tilting his head, Madara nosed the soft hairs at Tobirama’s temple before he leaned back and stood as well. “You speak as if you know our chakras,” he said, meeting her gaze steadily, “but I am a sensor, and I have never felt your signature around me. Or even in the region of the Land of Fire where our clans live.”

“There is so much beyond the ken of humans,” Matatabi murmured. “Your memories are short, and your visions narrow.” 

_Not the Uchiha_, Madara thought grimly. He kept those words beneath his tongue; he didn’t think she would be inclined to share what she knew – whether about the Rinnegan or about his and Hashirama’s chakras – and neither was he willing to entirely trust her words, much less depend on them as his only source of information.

“Nii-san,” Izuna whispered into his ear. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Later,” Madara replied out of the corner of his mouth, because—

“So,” Hashirama clapped his hands. “Are we heading back now?”

“What set your ass on fire about going back?” Izuna whirled to frown at him.

“I’m not sure if you remember,” Hashirama said, rocking backwards and standing in one fluid motion, “but Madara and me kind of destroyed a good number of Lightning’s shinobi. I’m not sure how many clans there are, but if a majority of them decide to take vengeance, I wouldn’t be surprised.” He smiled, wide with too many teeth. “I’d rather reach home before they do.”

“Weren’t you just saying that Mito can stop the war?” Izuna asked, standing as well.

“She can,” Hashirama said. “But I’m not such a fool as to think that shinobi would wait for a declaration of war before doing anything.” 

“Hashirama,” Madara said. When his friend glanced at him, Madara tipped his head up and held his gaze. “If we slaughter every single person who comes to our door seeking vengeance, we’re going to incur the fear and wrath of the other countries.” He paused to let that sink in. “There are more solutions than letting Mito deal with this on her own, or fighting the whole world. Do you understand me?” 

Turning away, Hashirama didn’t speak for a long moment. Then he nodded. “Thank you, Madara,” he whispered, and then strode away towards the charred tree. He completely ignored the way that Matatabi seemed to be trying to bore holes in his shoulders with her mismatched stare.

Madara watched him for long moments before he let out a low sigh.

“Is Anija alright?” Tobirama whispered. “His chakra feels…” He shook his head.

He didn’t have to continue for Madara to understand his meaning: Hashirama’s unsettled and unsettling mood was obvious. Not to mention those strange _spots_ within his chakra coils… he dragged hand over his face. “Tobirama,” he said.

“Mm?”

“As we’re heading back, can you try to,” he paused, trying to find the best way to phrase it, “figure out what Hashirama’s mokuton does to him?” When Tobirama cocked his head, clearly confused, Madara elaborated, “You’ve figured out how it works, right?”

“Yes,” Tobirama nodded.

“I need to know its effects on his body and his mind,” Madara said, eyes still fixed on his friend. “You see, I made Mito a promise, and I keep my promises.” A laugh burst out of him before he could stop himself. “Even if I hadn’t promised, I would do anyway.”

Hashirama might be a few months older than he was, but he was _vulnerable_ in ways that had nothing to do with age. And now that Madara knew, he couldn’t help but see the cracks in Hashirama’s being; could see all too well how much his friend’s power and efforts to keep himself together wore him down until…

Until what? He wasn’t sure. He only knew that he _really_ didn’t like those strange, faded spots in Hashirama’s chakra. Especially now that Hashirama was kneeling right next to the charred tree. 

Because the discolouration was in the _exact same shade_ as the tree’s dying chakra.

_Keep him human_, Mito had pleaded. Grimly, Madara thought that he might have to go one step further: he had to make sure that Hashirama remained _stable_. That those things he said were wrong with his own head were, if not fixed, at least he could live with without constantly being on the brink of madness or worse.

“Madara,” Tobirama’s fingers curled around his wrist. When Madara turned back to him, Tobirama’s clouded red eyes were open, and his head was tilted up to him. “I do not know what you mean by the promise you made Aneue, or why you worry so for Anija, but… I will.”

“Thank you,” Madara said. He turned his head and pressed a soft kiss to Tobirama’s hair. “Can you ask Matatabi if she’s okay with me sitting with you on her back? I need to talk to Izuna.”

“You don’t have to—” Tobirama started.

“I want to,” Madara pressed a thumb on his bottom lip. “And I have _months_ of missing you to make up for.”

Slowly, Tobirama smiled. Madara stared at the way his lips curved, like a slow-blooming flower, and his breath hitched in his throat. He couldn’t help but kiss Tobirama on that very smile, feeling the warmth of chapped lips against his own. When Tobirama’s hand rose to hesitantly curl around the nape of his neck, Madara hummed under his breath and let the kiss linger a little longer.

“Just a while more,” Madara said as he pulled away. “Then I will be your Madara again.”

“You like the name a little too much,” Tobirama said. Madara grinned, letting his chakra spike with his joy so Tobirama could feel it, and pecked him once more before he stood, striding the couple of steps over to where Izuna had been waiting.  
_**  
**_“I take that you have good news for me,” he said, crossing his arms. 

True to form, Izuna didn’t even need to ask to know that Madara’s question was not only as his older brother, but as his clan head. He nodded. 

“Touka should’ve arrived with Hikaku back at the village by now,” the Uchiha clan’s heir reported. “He’s in a bad shape, but the clan’s history remains preserved within him.” 

“Good,” Madara said, letting out a long breath between his teeth. He patted Izuna on the shoulder. “Show me everything that has happened during your travels on our way back to the village.”

Izuna fell silent for long moments. Madara waited. 

“Are they worth it?” Izuna asked finally. “The secrets that Hashirama has told you about his clan… are they worth so much that we _must_ give up our own clan secrets in return?” He dragged a hand over the tail of his hair. “I don’t mind telling Tobirama – in fact, we should have done it months ago – but _Hashirama_?”

Cocking an eyebrow, Madara gave his brother a look. After a moment, Izuna closed his eyes and sighed.

“He might have _told_ you all of those secrets, Nii-san, but I’m still left scrambling in the dark to piece shit together,” he grumbled.

“There won’t be anything for you to put together if he hadn’t allowed you to see beneath his masks,” Madara pointed out. “And you know that.”

“Yeah,” Izuna said. “I know that we kind of owe him at least _one_ clan secret. Though I don’t see why it has to be about the way we share memories.” His lips pressed together into a line before he exhaled explosively. “But I can see your point, Nii-san. Telling him something that important won’t just be for the sake of everything he has revealed, but also for the sake of village unity and integration between our clans.”

Madara couldn’t help it: he laughed, long and overly-loud.

“What?” Izuna demanded, bristling.

“You’re back,” Madara said, and didn’t stop himself from placing a hand on Izuna’s head to ruffle his hair. “My little brother who remembered my dream of a village even when I’d forgotten; who found me the path to peace when I had nearly given up any hope for it.” Leaning in, he knocked his forehead lightly against Izuna’s temple. “I’ve missed you.”

Pausing in the middle of trying to neaten his hair, Izuna closed his eyes and let out a shuddering breath. “I am,” he said, “so fucking happy to have burnt the shit out of that damned thing.” 

“Yeah,” Madara said, letting his eyes fall shut. “Me too.”

Nothing terrified him more than the thought that he couldn’t trust his own brother; that he couldn’t trust _Izuna_, who had been by his side for so long that Madara couldn’t remember a time when he _hadn’t beenlooki_. Even his first memory was of his baby brother doing his best to crawl fast enough to catch up to Madara’s toddler-sized legs so he wouldn’t be left behind. 

They stayed like this for long moments, Madara counting Izuna’s breaths and knowing that Izuna was doing the same with his. When they pulled away at the same moment, Madara already looking around for Tobirama and Mifuyu, Izuna inhaled sharply.

“Nii-san,” he said, grabbing Madara’s arms. “Your eyes.”

“What is it this time?” Madara asked, squeezing them shut by instinct.

“No, it’s alright,” Izuna said, and his voice was trembling with something that very much resembled relief. “They’re black again. The Rinnegan’s gone.”

“Oh,” Madara said, blinking them back open. He prodded at the corner of one. They didn’t feel anything different, but—

The world was less saturated now. And when he was looking at Izuna, he wasn’t seeing his bones and muscles and chakra coils overlaid over his face and body. And that was, well— he might be used to gore due to his life as a shinobi, but having to see that _permanently_ for _everyone_ he met was…

Madara let out a sigh of relief, and tried to not shudder.

“I think you have them permanently,” Izuna said once he was sure that Madara’s attention was back on him, “and we still have to figure out why and how – but… at least you can deactivate them?” He spread out his hands, shrugging.

“That’d be a lot more helpful if I know how I did it,” Madara said, wry. After a moment, he scrubbed his knuckles over his eyes and let out a long sigh. “At least now I won’t scare the hell out of everyone by walking into the village with a dojutsu that shouldn’t even exist.”

“Now you’ve done it,” Izuna said, elbowing him in the ribs. “You’ve jinxed yourself into having the Rinnegan activate right as you walk into the village.”

Rolling his thankfully-black eyes, Madara smacked his brother at the back of his head. He did _not _need to deal with reactions of the Uchiha and the Senju to the Rinnegan: trying to convince them to not start screaming, running away, or even worse when they spotted Matatabi would be bad enough without throwing a legendary dojutsu into the mix.

He hoped that he wouldn’t have to deal with anything ridiculous like fainting fits or desperate attacks on a huge chakra beast with very little patience. Which meant that, he suddenly remembered, he should write a letter to Mito to inform her that Matatabi would be arriving with them. Or, better yet, he should get Hashirama to write it, since it was Hashirama who had extended the invitation in the first place.

Speaking of which… How was Tobirama supposed to write, or even read, without use of his eyes?

Madara shook his head and told himself to fret over that later. Now, he focused back on his brother, punching him lightly on the arm because the little shit was still laughing. “Find Kazuyuki,” he demanded. “I hope he bites you.”

“Nah,” Izuna grinned. “He likes me just fine, no matter what he says.”

He kept his eyes on his brother as Izuna climbed over Kazuyuki’s back and immediately flopped face-first onto his black-and-white fur. Kazuyuki growled but didn’t throw Izuna off like he would’ve everyone else.

Well, Madara thought wryly, Izuna had a tendency to make _everyone_ like him, no matter how much those people disliked everyone else. He wasn’t sure how his little brother managed it; it seemed like one of those strange magics touted by charlatans.

Scanning his surroundings, he caught Mifuyu’s eyes. He jerked his head in the direction of flickering blue flames, and she inclined her massive head before tilting it towards Hashirama’s direction. When Madara mouthed, _“No_,” she nodded, and settled back onto her paws to wait. Madara turned away.

Tobirama was already on top of Matatabi’s back. Madara looked at her, tilting his head in question, and she seemed to laugh to herself before she nodded. That was permission enough, he supposed, and took off into a running leap onto her back. 

This time, he wrapped both arms around Tobirama’s shoulders, and used the momentum of his landing to drop onto his knees behind his beloved concubine.

“Madara—”

Tilting his head, he pressed his mouth against Tobirama’s just in the time to catch the sound of his own name from that long-missed voice. He breathed it in greedily, storing it into his own lungs even as he felt his eyes burn with the Sharingan activating to memorise the feeling of the reassuring warmth of Tobirama’s body as the younger man arched towards him, lips parting as if by instinct.

“Matatabi will let me stay,” Madara said, words crushed as he dragged his lips over Tobirama’s cheek, “but I doubt that she’ll be happy if I keep doing this while we’re on her back.”

“She will not,” Tobirama said, one hand rising to cup Madara’s face. 

“But I will be right here beside you,” Madara continued, turning his head to nuzzle his cheek against Tobirama’s callused palm. “Right here.”

“Yes,” Tobirama whispered back. “I can feel you.” His thumb brushing over the corner of Madara’s eye. “Madara—” he breathed that murmur in, too, swallowing it down and keeping it safe right beside his heart. 

“You’re here,” Tobirama said, low and reverent as if he was trying to make himself believe in it. “I might not be able to see your face, but I can feel you. You’re here, Madara,” his fingers trembled against Madara’s cheeks. “I feel you.”

Strands of white hair ran over Madara’s fingers as he stroked downwards. Tobirama wasn’t wearing the montsuki haori Madara had given him, instead a plain tsumugi that clearly had to be changed soon. But, for now, Madara could do something so Tobirama would not have to keep smelling the stench of the prison he had been trapped in for so long.

Gathering his chakra, he wove it into cloth with every touch of his fingertips. There was the barest hint of a crackle as his fire affinity scorched through the threads. Not nearly hot enough to set them aflame, but plenty enough that whatever smells they carried was replaced by that of fire.

Madara’s fire.

“I am,” Madara tilted his head, finding Tobirama’s mouth again, “right here.”

“Yes,” Tobirama choked out, shuddering all over as he clawed at Madara’s sleeves. “Madara— husband— _husband_—”

“Your Madara,” Madara agreed. “Your husband.” He dug his hands into Tobirama’s hair, tipping his head up so he could kiss him again. “I’m here, Tobirama. You’re safe here.”

Tobirama made a sound, too incoherent to be understood. His lips moved, mouthing two words over and over:

_Hearth fire_.

“My Tobirama,” Madara returned, shifting so Tobirama was once more in his lap. “My Tobirama.”

_Beloved concubine_ was not enough. It would never be enough. 

There were laws that would have to change. There might even be a world that needed to be completely upended. 

Madara decided then that the world would taste his flames. And if it was true that he now commanded the Rinnegan, then he would use it to flatten the world and force everyone to do his bidding. He would do anything to change and reshape the world so that one day, _one day_—

He could return Tobirama’s whispers of _husband _with _my bride_.

Because Tobirama would be his wife; the only one who rules over his household and whom he would spend his life beside.

Madara would accept nothing less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How the hell did this chapter end up being 14k? I genuinely have no clue.
> 
> Anyway, if Isobu is a cute baby and Kurama a grouchy old man, Matatabi is an adult woman. She also has _all _of the information – almost everything she says is a reference that the characters in the story won’t get but I hope that you would – without having much inclination to share it. Her cryptic comments aren’t without reasons, however.
> 
> Also, if the last part about Madara using “my bride” (“yome,” 嫁, literally meaning “one who married into the household”) and “my wife” (“kanai,” 家内, literally meaning “inside of the house”) for Tobirama comes as a massive surprise to you, I would just like to protest that there has been a running theme concerning gender since the very first chapter. It did _not_ come from nowhere, and it will be further elaborated upon.
> 
> (Stay safe, everyone. See you next week. <3)


	22. for the extinction of war

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings: **Self-destructive behaviour caused by a terrible sense of self-worth in the first scene.

His body felt like it was boiling from inside out.

Tobirama gritted his teeth. The noise of his molars grinding against each other filled his head, a constant and annoying _ehhk, ehhk, ehhk_ that had him releasing his jaw immediately. His hands clenched, but the fur beneath him wasn’t Kazuyuki or Mifuyu’s usual bristles and roughness, but instead like thin-cut ribbons with edges that tickled the webs between his fingers instead of cutting or piercing them. Entirely unhelpful when it came to settling his mind.

He hissed out a breath and pushed those sensations out, too. _Focus_, he scolded himself. He had to focus.

The world flickered into view again, barely more than a few dull spots at the back of his eyelids, before it all went dark once more. Tobirama lowered his head, chin practically digging into the hollow of his throat as he regulated his breathing. Be _calm_, a deep voice boomed in his head. _Control your temper, for only a fool will let their temper control them instead, and no son of mine is a fool._ __

__Exhale. Air scraped the insides of his raw throat, sweeping the taste of metal across his tongue. He forced that out of notice. Inhale. He splayed his fingers out on top of the soft, silk-like fur of the great cat below him, and tried again.

Dull spots burst into being behind his eyes. He ground his teeth together, ignoring the growing ache in his jaw, and pushed even further. 

His chakra sense stretched out, shifting and twisting through the air and into the ground beneath his swinging legs. Tobirama could nearly smell the scent of deep forests and raging wildfires, seeming to meld together for brief moments before becoming distinct again. Sunshine seemed to caress the back of his neck before it was replaced with the sound of logs crackling and snapping as they dried.

_Wrong_. He didn’t need any of those. Tobirama let out his breath, and dragged in more air. 

Better, now: the feel of warmth on his back was replaced by something dull green-brown that immediately shuddered into an overly-bright, unnatural yellow before changing back. Neither of those colours made sense when matched with the shape flickering into view: spikes that narrowed downwards before sprawling into a great expanse of white and black and red that resembled the corpse of a great bear spilling blood as it was thrown into white waters. 

No use wasting his effort on colour, then, Tobirama thought grimly to himself. He needed shapes instead. Oh, and movement. He needed to be able to map movement and _see _it, even if it was in a limited form. If he had to rely on the _sound_ of all things to figure out when someone was approaching him, then he needn’t even think about being an active shinobi ever again. He wouldn’t even be allowed to go out of the house without supervision.

He would be living in a shinobi village, after all, and every single shinobi had been trained to walk or even leap without sound. He would be worse than a civilian; he’d become a burden whose upkeep would drain the village’s coffers, and he had spent far too long making sure to never be described as such, to be able to stand—

Breath. Tobirama’s chakra shuddered through his coils, sending spikes of pain up his spine. He tried to shove them back but his head was starting to pound, white spots appearing behind his eyes that had nothing to do with the outlines of all those he _needed_ to see—

Heat. Tobirama jerked despite himself, head dropping back. He flung himself forward with his next breath, fighting to free himself, but the arms around him were like steel, and he couldn’t escape, couldn’t—

“Tobirama.” A familiar rumble. Familiar tickle of long hair against his cheek. Tobirama squeezed his useless eyes shut, lips parted and panting as chakra warm like a hearth fire skittered down his arms, coiled around his wrists, and sank into his skin.

Madara’s lips on his temple felt like a brand; a mark of everything he had not earned and could not deserve. Not while he was still—

“Don’t stop me,” he gasped out, barely able to keep himself coherent. “I need to— I—”

“I’m not going to stop you,” Madara said. His nails scratched lightly over Tobirama’s scalp, making his nerves cry out even as he leaned helplessly towards that touch. “I just need you to tell me what you’re trying to do.”

He wasn’t going to— Tobirama blinked, surprised despite himself. Hashirama had always stopped him whenever he thought that Tobirama was prioritising his experiments over food and sleep, and Tobirama knew that what he was doing right this moment was far worse than simple neglect. Madara was a sensor, too, and he could _feel_ that, so why wasn’t he—

No, this was a good thing. He didn’t want to be stopped. He _needed _to finish this so that he could… 

So that he _could_.

Resisting the urge to dig his knuckles into the corners of his useless eyes, Tobirama let out a breath. “You’re not stopping me,” he echoed, and nearly smiled at the evenness of his own voice.

“I’m not,” Madara confirmed. “You’re doing what you need to do, right?” Pressed as Tobirama was to his chest, he could feel the rumble of every word, vibrating against his own back and threatening to make him shake from the force of it.

Paradoxically, it made his tremulous breathing start to ease.

“Yes, I have to—” He cut himself off. Madara had asked a question. Tobirama knew that he was supposed to answer questions when asked. “I am trying to see again.”

“I expected nothing less,” Madara said, voice calm and soothing even as he tightened the grip of his arms around Tobirama’s ribs. “But what exactly are you trying to do?” Before Tobirama could answer, Madara’s hand splayed over his heart. “I’m not going to stop you, but I can feel what you’re doing to your chakra coils right now, and it worries me.”

Oh. He hadn’t thought that Madara would— he should have realised that Madara would fret. He had always fussed over and nagged about so much, after all.

“Chakra sense isn’t exactly one,” he started, speaking partly for Madara’s sake and partly to get used to speaking aloud to remember things because he could no longer write them down. “The _sensing_ part isn’t an issue, for certain people with trained chakra coils will have an affinity for the ability to pick up chakra from the air.”

“Mm,” Madara was nodding; Tobirama could tell from the soft hairs brushing over the back of his own neck. 

“It is the translation of that sense into information for our brains to pick up that becomes an issue.” Tobirama paused, cocking his head to the side. No, that wasn’t exactly the correct way to phrase it… “Our bodies unfortunately do not have the capabilities to interpret chakra in its raw form. Those who are not sensors simply cannot translate the chakra around them was trying to tell them, while for sensors, chakra sense hijacks the other senses to send information to the brain.”

“Like how your chakra sometimes makes me hear the sound of a rushing river,” Madara murmured under his breath. “Or how Hashirama’s chakra sometimes smells like newly-trodden green leaves.”

“Mm,” Tobirama smiling despite himself. “And our brains immediately translate that to the objects that are usually associated with those sounds or scents, such as my chakra feeling like a river to you, or Anija like a forest to the two of us. 

“Let me guess,” Madara said, a wry note creeping into his tone even as his chakra spiked with the cool breeze that signalled amusement. “You’re trying to rewire your chakra sense into _sight_.” 

Eyes falling close, Tobirama nodded. Madara had always understood him so quickly that explaining things to him didn’t feel quite so much like a chore. “Yes,” he said.

“That’s a brilliant idea,” Madara said. His nose nudged the nape of Tobirama’s neck slightly. “But do you have to do it _without _the seal?”

Tobirama blinked. “Which seal?” he asked, genuinely confused.

“The one that transfers Hashirama’s chakra to you,” Madara said. “He recovered a long time ago, so he has plenty of chakra for you to use.” A pause. Then, in an even quieter voice: “So, why aren’t you using it?”

Hah. Tobirama, cocking his head to the side. That was entirely unexpected.

He had removed the seal from himself right before he had been captured, because he wouldn’t want a seal that could provide nigh-limitless chakra to get into an enemy’s hands, much less a seal that directly connected to Hashirama. During his imprisonment, he hadn’t had enough chakra to put it on himself, and there was still a chance of its knowledge being leaked out to the enemy. But after his and Matatabi’s escape, he could’ve…

But he hadn’t. He hadn’t even _thought_ about that seal, because he had simply forgotten about its existence. 

“My experiments with it have all been completed,” he said, unsure if he was trying to assuage Madara’s confusion or express his own. “Why would I need it now?”

“Because your chakra coils are close to being burnt out from the suppression seals you had on,” Madara said, voice quiet but steely in a way that reminded Tobirama of the time when he had sat in seiza behind him, facing three Uchiha elders. “And the seal will help them heal.”

“Oh,” Tobirama said. “That’s not—”

“It is necessary,” Madara interrupted before he could even get a full sentence out. “I can feel the damage, Tobirama, and it upsets me.” His sigh brushed over the curve of Tobirama’s ear, and was immediately chased by his lips brushing over his cheek. “You might think much about the harms you do to yourself, Tobirama, but they matter a great deal to me.”

“Oh,” Tobirama said again. “I…” Should he apologise? But he had never asked Madara to— he wasn’t sure why Madara would—

“Will you put the seal back on, Tobirama?”

Tobirama’s hand was on his own shoulder before he was entirely cognizant of it moving. Heat blossomed beneath the tip of his index finger, and he knew without looking – not that he could anymore – that ink had spread to form the seal. 

The taste of cool spring waters mixed with metal washed once more over his tongue. Tobirama let out a long sigh as all of the pain he had been keeping locked up at the back of his mind was slowly swept away by the tides.

“Hah.” That was not Madara’s voice. “Perhaps you might actually deserve that name, Tobirama’s Madara.”

Dragging himself out from the sensation of his nerves near-drowning and struggling under the absence of pain, Tobirama blinked. He knew that voice, of course – he heard nothing but it for quite a while – but he thought that she had agreed to stop calling Madara that.

“Not yet,” Madara said. Tobirama opened his mouth, about to ask about the sheer nonsensical nature of that reply, when Madara’s fingers slid over his own, the heat of his skin heating up Tobirama’s cool hand before he nudged them both downwards to land on something solid.  
_  
_Matatabi’s body was warm, too, muscles rolling smoothly with every step she took. Though Madara had mentioned that she resembled a cat, the slippery, silk-like strands of her fur felt nothing like that of any cats he had ever touched. Each strand licked at his skin, a burst of warmth that evaporated the droplets of water that dotted Tobirama’s hand.

Was it raining? No, that was sweat. But, aside from his heart still-pounding in his ears, Tobirama felt no sense of exertion. When had he become so unaware and so out of control of his body that he felt like he had been running even when he had been seated on Matatabi’s back the whole time?

“If I ask a favour of you,” Madara said, his voice drawing Tobirama’s thoughts away from the whirlpool that threatened to drown him, “will you stop trying for your chakra sight and help me instead?”

Tobirama heard his own breath hitch; felt the air scraping the insides of his throat. “That’s not a fair question,” he protested.

“Maybe not,” Madara acknowledged, chin digging into Tobirama’s shoulder for the briefest of moments as he nodded. “But will you, Tobirama?”

Eyes slipping shut, Tobirama let out a long sigh, and with it released the hyperawareness he had been keeping on his own senses. “You’re incredibly unfair and absolutely terrible at manipulation,” he murmured into his husband’s chin. “You know that I would.”

“Am I really that bad?” Madara asked, sounding amused.

“Worse than Anija,” Tobirama confirmed. “You won’t ever be able to match up to Aneue.”

“Somehow, I think that you complimented both Mito and me at the same time,” Madara said, soft laughter tickling the edge of Tobirama’s jaw. 

Tobirama blinked. He shouldn’t have, because his eyes were useless now, and thus such gestures should no longer have any meaning. Still, he couldn’t break those habits yet, and he shelved it as a project to work on at another time. “I said that you’re _bad_ at something,” he pointed out. “How could that be a compliment?”

“Being bad at manipulation means that I’m straightforward and honest,” Madara replied. “That’s what I strive to be.” He paused, his chakra shifting slightly, before he huffed a quiet chuckle and continued, “Maybe that’s a privilege, too. One that I’ve always had, but which I’ve never appreciated before now.”

What did that even _mean_? Tobirama opened his mouth to ask, but what came out was, instead: “I’m terrible at manipulation, too.” 

He hadn’t meant to admit that. Granted, it was obvious enough that he shouldn’t _need_ to do so, but… When had his mouth gotten so out of control, especially in Madara’s presence? When had it become so _easy_ for him to admit his own faults and weaknesses around this man? Madara might be his husband, but Tobirama knew all too well just how little the bonds of marriage could mean, much less that of concubinage.

But Madara had never made him afraid. Even on his very first morning in the Uchiha compound, when Madara had stood behind him with the full authority over his life and position within the clan that was his, Tobirama had felt no whit of terror. 

Not even now, when Madara’s arm was slung over his shoulders, nails perilously close to his neck, while his lips grazed over his temple. “I know,” Madara was saying, voiced barely above a murmur. “I know, too, that you think it a bad thing.”

Pushing away his thoughts about Madara – what else could he do now that he admitted to it? what other routes could he take after accepting Madara’s place as his husband in his heart? – he focused on the man’s words instead.

“I don’t see how it wouldn’t be,” he said. What could something he couldn’t manage, a way in which he couldn’t make himself useful, be anything but a detriment?

Madara sighed. “I’m not going to tell you that it’s not, because I don’t think you’ll believe me.” He pulled Tobirama even tighter into his arms, wisps of wild hair tickling Tobirama’s chin and nose and cheek. “Besides, if I don’t tell you what I need you to help me with, I think I’ll actually forget.”

Tobirama let out a huff of disbelief. “Aren’t Uchiha memories supposed to be good?”

“The _Sharingan’s_ memory is good,” Madara said, sounding like he was repeating something he had been taught by rote as a protest. “Anyway, I think we are close enough to the village by now that you can check it out. Will you? My range isn’t as far as yours.”

“You don’t have to flatter me,” Tobirama grumbled.

“It’s not flattery when I’m stating a well-known fact,” Madara refuted immediately.

Tilting his head up – he would have rolled his eyes if not for the fact that he knew there was no point – Tobirama channelled chakra through his body again. His lungs were already following the steadiness of Madara’s breath, easing out the lingering pain from the burns his chakra coils had received and which Hashirama’s chakra had not healed. 

By now, the village was no more than two hours’ travel away by foot, more than near enough for him to scan the chakra of its inhabitants. He could feel Mito’s chakra like a blazing beacon, spiking once a while as if trying to escape her usual tight control. There was someone beside her, their chakra strange because it wasn’t Touka – Touka was nowhere to be found – but instead—

Could that be an Uchiha right beside Mito? And was it _Hikaku_? Izuna had carelessly mentioned that the man had been found, but had given no other details, and his chakra had roiled so oddly that Tobirama thought better than to pry further. Now that he could feel Hikaku himself, he noted some strange fluctuations within his chakra that worried him. If Hikaku wasn’t an Uchiha, Tobirama would’ve thought him to be one of those Senju warriors who had been so heavily injured during a mission or battle that they only had enough strength to crawl back to die in their compound. 

Hikaku was clearly alive, and Tobirama knew he would remain so. He might have no concrete evidence to present for that belief, but he _knew_ that the Uchiha wouldn’t let one of their own die. He might have never seen a heavily-injured Uchiha, whether shinobi or civilian, during his time in either the compound or the village, but he _knew_ that they wouldn’t have stood back and allowed one of their own to die like the Senju tended to.

(Surely Father was right, that it was kinder to allow those warriors to have an honourable death that benefitted the clan, than drain the clan’s resources to support them after they could no longer contribute. But Tobirama still remembered the way his Uncle’s breaths had trembled under the pillow Tobirama had pressed over his face, as if even in his unending coma he had known the reasons for the death sentence he had been given, and had tried to weep at its injustice.)

“Izuna is right: Hikaku is in the village,” he reported. 

“That’s good to hear,” Madara said, nodding lightly. “I’ve been worried about him.” 

“Aneue is, as well,” Tobirama continued, “but Touka-nee is,” _missing, _“not in the village.” He swallowed down the twisting worry that threatened to choke him. “Do you need to know more?” 

Madara shook his head. “I’d rather see for myself.” His fingers curled around Tobirama’s wrist lightly, rough calluses brushing over the soft, sensitive skin on the insides. “Is there anything else?” 

There wasn’t.

Letting out a long breath, Tobirama focused back on his chakra sense, scanning the village from corner to corner. The dark presence that had lingered around Hikaku during Tobirama’s trip with him to Uzushio – was that only a few months ago? it felt so much longer – couldn’t be detected in the slightest. Tobirama hadn’t felt any hint of the creature in the last few days, either.

Izuna had said, multiple times, that he had burnt the creature down to nothing so much as ash. Tobirama had no doubts that it was true, but he worried, and he refused to let Madara _or_ Izuna come to harm due to his own carelessness. He had already done so once, and he would not—

Warm air ghosted over his jaw. “I can practically read your mind like this,” Madara’s low voice brushed over the curve of his ear. “Whatever you’re thinking about, stop, because it’s likely not true and it’s upsetting you.”

“You don’t even know what I’m thinking about,” Tobirama protested, turning his head to bump his temple lightly against Madara’s cheek.

Chapped lips skittered over the corner of his mouth, accompanied by rough strands of wild hair that tickled his neck as Madara laughed. “I don’t have to know to understand that you’re blaming yourself for something that’s not your fault,” he said. Then, before Tobirama could refute him, his thumb slid lightly over Tobirama’s bottom lip. “Don’t you have better things to do than argue with me?”

Directly to their right, Izuna rode on Mifuyu’s back, silent and chakra so still that Tobirama wondered if he had somehow fallen asleep. Kazuyuki walked beside the two of them, chakra spiking occasionally as he guarded the outer perimeter of the group. And on their other side, Hashirama walked, long legs allowing him to keep stride with Matatabi and Mifuyu without panting. Tobirama poked at his brother with his chakra sense, and then pulled away immediately because—

“He’s very unsettled,” Madara said, the vibrations of his voice warming the back of Tobirama’s ribcage. “At this point, I’m not sure why he is, much less how to get him to calm down.” His sigh brushed over the side of his neck.

Arms still wrapped around Tobirama’s torso, Madara shifted one of his hands up to trace the curve of his jaw down to his neck. His skin was very warm, so much so that Tobirama knew that he should hate it, especially since the weather had been humid and hot ever since they had crossed back into the Land of Fire. Besides, Izuna and Hashirama were right here with them, and the great cats as well, and Tobirama should pull away so as to maintain some form of propriety—

But he found himself leaning his weight further into his husband instead, shifting around until Madara laughed and slid a hand into the collar of Tobirama’s nemaki to splay over his heart.

“Anija likely misses Aneue,” Tobirama said, focusing on answering so his brain was filled with only the feel of Madara’s rough calluses over the sensitive skin of his chest. “They are rarely separated, and do not take well to being so.”

“Didn’t you tell me that I shouldn’t complain about being separated from you, because we have our own duties?” Madara asked, sounding arch.

“Neither Anija nor Aneue complain,” Tobirama pointed out reasonably. “Not like you do.”

There was a sound almost like a choke before Madara laughed. “No, I suppose not,” he said. Something in his voice – a note that was far too heavy to either suit his mirth or be explained by his annoyance at Hashirama’s grumpiness – had Tobirama blinking his useless eyes for a few moments. Tobirama opened his mouth to ask, but before he could, another voice cut through the heavy near-silence surround them.

“Hah,” Matatabi said. “He’s here.”

“Who is?” Hashirama’s question snapped out of him with the sharpness of a cracking whip.

“The bastard who claimed this land as his territory, though earth could and should never be owned,” Matatabi snorted. Beneath Tobirama’s hand, her shoulders rolled in a way that made Tobirama think that she had tossed her head back. “A fool who still believes that a few days, or even years, of difference have meaning after the first century.”

There was a long pause. 

“Are you talking about the huge chakra fox who roams around here,” Izuna’s voice rang out tentatively, “like he’s your annoying older brother?”

“Hm,” Matatabi said. “I thought you had no talent in chakra sensing, little Uchiha.”

“I don’t, but it’s not difficult for me to put the pieces together,” Izuna said, wry. “Especially since I do have an exceedingly annoying older brother.” 

“Are you asking for your hair to be set on fire?” Madara snapped almost immediately.

“That’d require you letting go of Tobirama, Nii-san, and I don’t think you’d do that,” Izuna retorted, sounding cheerful. “Trapping yourself like that is just asking for me to insult you at will.”

“Do you think,” Madara drawled, “I need to make hand signs to set your entire body on fire?”

Izuna took a deep breath, clearly about to argue, but whatever he was about to say died abruptly when Hashirama barked out a laugh.

“You’re just proving his point, Madara,” Hashirama said, his chakra spiking in a way that had Tobirama gripping onto Madara’s wrist tightly by instinct. “Can the two of you perhaps stop squabbling and let Matatabi tell us exactly who is coming, and what is he here for?”

“What the fuck crawled up your ass,” Izuna muttered, sounding mystified. “You’ve been getting weirder lately, tree-man, and—” 

“Izuna,” Madara started.

“And I will absolutely shut up,” Izuna continued, louder now, “after lodging yet another complaint about there being so much shit that you two are keeping to yourselves that I’m starting to wonder, Hashirama, if you’re actually trying to drive a wedge between Nii-san and me by making me even more annoyed with him.”

Behind Tobirama’s body, Madara tensed. “Izuna,” he said again.

“No, Nii-san,” Izuna said. “I want to hear from Hashirama himself.”

Silence. Hesitantly, Tobirama sent a tendril of chakra outwards. Matatabi was waiting patiently, a thread of amusement twined within her coils at, Tobirama had no doubt, the events unfolding in front of her. Mifuyu and Kazuyuki both seemed to be fretting – had Izuna won them over so quickly that they were now worrying over his safety? they had never fretted over Hashirama, after all, so it couldn’t be him that made them feel this way – while Hashirama was…

Hashirama’s chakra had always felt like a vast forest, with his mood shifting the focus on different areas. When he was happy, truly happy, his chakra felt like bright summer sunshine spilling through the canopy, casting the colourful flowers and mushrooms on the forest floor into sharp relief even as the air was filled with the scent of sunlight and green. His rage was the crackle of lightning overhead and the sizzle of burning bark and flesh as a thunderstorm ripped through a forest. Now…

Now he felt like one of the forest’s deepest and most inexplicable areas, full of caves and shadows that made no sense, and where the eyes of squirrels and owls shone but their sounds could not be heard.

It was something Tobirama had felt from his brother before, especially in the years before Father had died. But despite all of his efforts, he still could not find a single word that could describe Hashirama’s emotions when his chakra felt this way. Tobirama knew only that when Hashirama was like this, he should stay inside his lab and leave him alone.

He opened his mouth to say as such to Izuna, but before he could, Hashirama let out a sigh.

“That has never been my intention,” he finally said. “I only told Madara some things.”

“Care to share them with me?” Izuna asked, his casual tone entirely unfitting his tightly-controlled chakra.

“No,” Hashirama refused flatly. “I told Madara, and only Madara, because I needed his help. And I trust him.” _But I don’t trust you_. Hashirama might have not said those words precisely, but Tobirama was sure that everyone within earshot heard them.

“As much as I’m flattered by the two of you fighting over me,” Madara started.

“Shut up, Nii-san,” Izuna flung out. As Madara’s jaws clicked back shut loudly enough that the sound echoed in Tobirama’s ear, Izuna leashed his chakra even harder. “You trust him,” he echoed. “Do you actually trust Nii-san, Hashirama, or do you trust the man you see whenever you look at him?”

Tobirama blinked. What did Izuna—

“How,” Hashirama said, voice growing even flatter even as his chakra spiked like the shadows of branches reaching out to strangle and pierce, “do you know about that?”

“I might find it fun to act as if I am,” Izuna said, similarly quiet and serious, “but I am not actually dumb.”

“No, I’ve never thought of you so, I just—”

“Though you’d hid it better?”

Hashirama didn’t speak for long moments. Then he sighed. “I don’t want to talk about it here.” Another sharp spike of his chakra, controlled so quickly that Tobirama would’ve missed it if he didn’t know Hashirama’s chakra as well as he did, before he let out another barking laugh. “I don’t want to talk about it at all, actually, but especially not here.”

“But you will tell me,” Izuna said.

“For someone who says that he’s not dumb,” Hashirama returned, sounding amused now, “you’re doing something remarkably stupid right now.”

“I know,” Izuna said, clearly having grasped Hashirama’s meaning even though Tobirama’s head was reeling from the sudden change in subject. “But I have the feeling that if I don’t corner you about it, then I’m never going to know. Besides, I have an advantage.”

“Oh?” Hashirama asked.

“Yeah,” Izuna said, and something in his voice made Tobirama imagine him grinning, sharp and full of teeth. “Nii-san will be incredibly mad at you if you end up hurting me, much less killing me. Which means you won’t.” A pause, then, in an even cheerier tone: “Besides, I think I’m the only person who would do something like this.”

“Why would you?” 

“Because I want to know,” Izuna said. “And because I think you need a reminder.”

“Of what?”

“You might be a fucking monster,” Izuna said, voice light, “but I am not and will never be scared of you.”

“For the sake of the gods above, Izuna,” Madara said, the roll of his eyes shining clear in his voice, “could you be _more_ dramatic?”

“What kind of question is that, Nii-san?” Izuna asked, sounding insulted of all things. “I’m not even _trying_.”

“That,” Madara said, tart, “makes things even worse.”

“Hey—” Izuna started, clearly about to start a new argument, this time with his own brother instead of Tobirama’s.

But Hashirama had started to laugh. Unlike the sharp snaps of the previous occasions, this one was far gentler, making the air shake with it. Tobirama could feel his own shoulders starting to relax with the sound, because he knew _this_ was Hashirama’s true laughter. Not his joy or contentment – Tobirama knew those were always quiet and mostly fleeting – but the noise he made when something was actually _funny_ instead of Hashirama pretending that it was in hopes of changing the mood or manipulating someone into thinking that he was stupider than he actually was.

(His brother had always been like the forest that his chakra felt like: deceptively simple, but with so much depths and so many contradictions, folding and twisting into dozens of layers until he was nearly impossible to understand, much less described with words that were by their nature linear.)

“Are all of you finished?” Matatabi said, impatience filling the air the moment Hashirama’s laughter started to fade. “Because when I say that he is here, I meant that we should go to him.”

“Go to him,” Izuna said, practically taking the words from Tobirama’s throat. “You would have us _go_ to the massive chakra fox, who just happens to your brother.”

“You would have me go to your village,” Matatabi said. “The village that is built around here, as part of the area that he has claimed as his.”

“Yes,” Hashirama said.

“I might laugh at my older brother’s folly at taking land for his own, but that is my right as his sibling,” Matatabi continued. “My right as someone who matches up to him in terms of age and history. Unlike you humans.”

“Oh,” Tobirama said, the sound escaping him before he could pull it back. “You would like us to ask him for permission to build the village.” He hesitated, biting the inside of his bottom lip, before Madara stroked a thumb down the inside of his wrist. “A show of respect,” he forced himself to continue, fighting back the shudder that wanted to wreak through him from the touch. “To both of you.” 

“I did not like you for no reason,” Matatabi said, sounding pleased.

“Wait,” Hashirama said, chakra shifting as his confusion came to the fore. “How does asking, uh, the fox for permission for the village show respect to Matatabi?”

“We didn’t know who the fox was, much less that he has staked his territory,” Tobirama reasoned, “which means that he has not done so because of _us_. The claim he makes now is to Matatabi and the rest of her siblings. By acknowledging that, and by asking his permission for Matatabi to be here, we’re acknowledging that their agreement matters.” He paused, tilting his head as he tried to find the right words.

“An acknowledgment that _their_ opinions and thoughts matter,” Madara spoke up from behind him. “To show that we’re entirely unlike those who have captured and imprisoned you. Right, Matatabi?” 

“Why,” she said, calm voice belying the sudden roiling of her chakra, “do you think I agreed to come with all of you, down to the point of allowing the two of you use me like you would a horse or a mule?”

“If I have to guess,” Madara said steadily, “it is because you like Tobirama enough to follow him. But I suppose that doesn’t explain why you haven’t left him now that he’s with us, or why you’re allowing me here, as well.”

“Oh, and you know something about Madara and me, too,” Hashirama piped up. “You mentioned knowing our chakra, right?” That, Tobirama knew, wasn’t a casual question.

“I did, but that was an afterthought,” Matatabi said, body rolling underneath Tobirama’s calves in a way that was very reminiscent of a human’s shrug. “It has nothing to do with why I have decided to follow all of you for so long.”

“So, are we supposed to guess,” Izuna said, wry, “or are you going to actually tell us at some point?”

“Such impatience, little Uchiha,” Matatabi chuckled. “Very well, I will tell you.” Tobirama cocked his head, wishing he could see her face, because— was she _teasing_ Izuna, at this point? He rested his hand heavily against her back, about to sink his chakra in to understand what was going on better, when she said something that froze him entirely:

“All of you met me when I was destroying the village with Tobirama on my back. Yet instead of attacking me to demand his return, you protected me, and spoke to me.”

He wasn’t the only one shocked into stillness, either: even Madara’s hand on his wrist had stopped moving.

“It might be hypocritical for me to say this,” Hashirama said, dragging out every other word, “but that’s some really low standards you have there, Matatabi.”

What did Hashirama mean? Why would it be hypocritical for him to think— in fact, why _would_ he think—

“Nii-san wanted to attack you, actually,” Izuna said, sounding thoughtful. “Hashirama, too, I believe.”

“Oh?” Matatabi asked.

“Yeah. But you’re not the first of your siblings that he has befriended, and I was there for that.”

“Tobirama,” Hashirama said, voice dropping low in a way that Tobirama was extremely familiar with and disliked even more. “What does Izuna mean?”

Matatabi hummed, loud enough to fill the air and save Tobirama from answering. “I see,” she said. “So, the new village that you’re building… it is a harbinger for a new world, isn’t it?”

“You change topics so quickly that I’m getting dizzy from it,” Izuna said. “But, yes, that the point of building the village.”

“A new world in which a Senju is also an Uchiha,” Matatabi continued, each word enunciated as if she was tasting their edges before releasing the sound. “One with villages of clans united, instead of clans separated and competing against each other.” Muscles rippled beneath Tobirama’s hand as Matatabi – he guessed – lowered her head and laughed. “I followed you, for you have made me curious about this world you are trying to build.”

Warm air gusted over Tobirama’s neck as Madara sighed. “A world where humans will speak instead of attack when meeting you for the first time,” he stated.

“Mm,” Matatabi agreed. “Do you find that to be ridiculous?”

“For once, I agree with Hashirama,” Madara said, a thread of mirth creeping into his voice. “You have extremely low standards. But,” an arm left Tobirama’s waist; was Madara raising it? “I can see what you mean.”

“Please explain to me, Nii-san,” Izuna said, chakra spiking lightly with frustration, “because I’m lost.”

“How long did you and your siblings spend avoiding humans?” Clearly ignoring his brother, Madara asked the great cat. “How long has it been since any of you spoke to a human? Since a human would look you in the eye and speak to you as if you are one of them, instead of a monster to be feared?”

“Centuries,” Matatabi whispered.

“Plenty long enough,” Madara murmured, “for you to forget that there could be any other reaction.” For some reason, Hashirama drew in a sharp breath at those words. “Now, you see the potential of a world where that is the _norm_. A world where fear and anger are not the only emotions you can associate with a human.”

“That’s some pretty impressive guesswork,” Matatabi said, voice oddly subdued.

“Not at all,” Madara refuted, his hair brushing over Tobirama’s cheeks as he shook his head. “I can see why you and Tobirama get along so well.” Tobirama frowned. He did? How? That answer made no sense at all. 

“There is something else,” Matatabi said, shifting beneath Tobirama’s knees and hand in a way that likely meant that she was turning back to meet Madara’s eyes. “He reminded me of a possibility that I thought was long lost.”

“Yeah,” Madara said, voice equally quiet. “He has a habit of doing that to people.”

Letting out an explosive breath, Tobirama dug his elbow into Madara’s ribs. “I can understand Izuna’s frustration perfectly now,” he said tartly, wriggling out of his husband’s arms. “I do not understand the conversations going on, and I do not like it. Especially since they are about _me_.” 

Madara’s chakra shuddered with such obvious worry that Tobirama was tempted to start shouting with frustration. Before he could, however, Hashirama sighed.

“Forgive me, Tobirama,” he murmured, voice barely loud enough to be heard. “Madara keeps secrets not for his own sake, but because I asked him to.”

Squeezing shut his useless eyes, Tobirama shook his head. “Having you distrust me, Anija, is no better than having Madara do the same.”

“That’s not— I don’t—” Hashirama trailed off, not even finishing his sentence.

“Shall I say it for you, Hashirama?” Madara said, heavily pointed. “You’re a coward. That’s all there is to it.”

Tobirama whirled around. Madara might be privy to Hashirama’s secrets – a feat that not even Tobirama was capable of, even though he was his little brother – and he might be Tobirama’s husband, but neither fact could give him the right to talk to Hashirama that way—

His words died in his throat his head snapped to the side, narrowing instinctively even though he could see nothing with them, now. “Aneue,” he said.

“What?” Hashirama blurted out. “What does Mito have to do with this?”

“Nothing,” Tobirama answered, curt. “But she’s heading our way, and in a great hurry, too.”

“Isn’t she supposed to be guarding the village?” Madara asked, sounding rather befuddled.

“Gods above, _please_ don’t let her be the bearer of bad news,” Izuna heaved out a sigh through his teeth. “I’ve been fighting nearly non-stop for _months_, and we’re supposed to be at _peace_, for fuck’s sake.” 

“If we have to fight, then we’ll fight.” Despite those words, Madara’s arm wound around Tobirama’s shoulders, and his lips brushed over the top of his head. “Stop whining already, Izuna.”

“I suppose I’m exempted from that command?” Tobirama murmured, tipping his head to the side. His cheek brushed over the familiarly-rough skin of Madara’s jaw.

Squeezing him lightly, Madara snorted. “I have no doubt that you will be able to pull your weight,” he murmured. “Just don’t overdo it, alright? I’d really rather not end up hurting Matatabi’s fox-brother, or, worse still, destroy our own village, because I got pissed off about you getting injured.”

A quiet laugh wrested itself out of Tobirama’s throat before he could stop it. “I promise I’ll be careful,” he said, lips still twitching. “For the safety and security of the village.”

“At this point,” Madara said, his shaking shoulders pressed against Tobirama’s back, “I don’t think that’s at all an exaggeration.”

“That shouldn’t be a laughing matter,” Tobirama protested. But the warmth of Madara’s chakra surrounding him, the feel of his soft laughter tickling against his jaw, made holding onto the solemnness of the situation difficult.

Then he had to pull himself away from Madara’s embrace, instinctively narrowing his worthless eyes as he turned westward.

Mito’s chakra felt like a churning storm as she burst through the trees, some of it escaping into wind blades that snapped branches and scored trunks as she passed. On the ground, Kazuyuki let out a growl, instinctively reacting towards Mito’s agitation as a potential threat.

But he didn’t have the chance to react – no one did – because Hashirama’s chakra flared out around him, bright and burning like a tree catching into flames under the blaze of the midsummer’s sun. Tobirama winced despite himself, curling against Madara’s chest when the other man tightened the arm around Tobirama’s waist.

His brother and sister-in-law crashed against each other, their chakra signatures exploding around them with enough force to blow leaves from the trees and whip Tobirama’s hair away from his face. Tobirama urged his coils to shift, to obey, and he caught a flickering afterimage of Hashirama and Mito’s hands slamming together, palm against palm and fingers tangling, before the searing light of their chakra started to dim.

“Like I said,” Tobirama told Madara, “Anija and Aneue don’t take well to being separated.”

Staring at the touching reunion between husband and wife, Izuna narrowed his eyes.

A part of him, already sick and tired of the shadowy secrets that shrouded the Senju, wanted to believe in the snatches of Tobirama’s words that the wind had brought to him; that there was nothing wrong with Hashirama aside from the long absence away from his wife. It would be so _simple_ for him to believe.

It wasn’t as if Hashirama was making it difficult for Izuna to hold onto the illusion, either. “Wife,” he was saying, his voice muffled where he had crushed his face into Mito’s hair. “_Mito_.” Her name shuddered out of him.

Arms wrapped tight around Hashirama’s torso, Mito didn’t return the greeting. Despite the branches that surrounded their bodies and practically obscured her from view, Izuna didn’t need his Sharingan to notice the shallow unevenness of her every breath as she clung onto Hashirama like he was her last lifeline. 

It really, he thought grimly to himself, would be so easy.

But he had never been one who blinded himself. Even without Madara showing that he knew more with every breath and word – his brother had never been a particularly subtle man – Izuna could practically _see _the cracks crawling all over Hashirama’s being, reaching far too deep to be explained away as sickness caused by the separation from the woman he loved. No mere longing could justify Hashirama walking around for an entire day covered entirely in dried blood. In fact, the love he held for Mito should make him more selfish; should deter him from reckless deeds like using his own body as a shield for Izuna. 

No, Izuna thought. Whatever was wrong with Hashirama reached all the way down to his very _foundations_.

He wished he could leave it at that, because having to consider Hashirama _broken_ was already a headache in itself. But Tobirama’s words still rang in his head, and he knew that, whatever he could call the man he had once considered an enemy and a rival, Tobirama wasn’t stupid. And, no matter the current or previous condition of his eyes, he wasn’t blind, either.

Tobirama’s opinion about his own brother couldn’t be trusted. The jury was still out on whether it was because he purposefully refused to see what was in front of him, or if his own perception was far too warped for him to understand what he _was_ seeing.

Resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, Izuna sighed. _Why _was Touka the _only_ person born in the Senju clan who had the capability of speaking _directly_? And it wasn’t even as if she was all that good at it!

There was one more option he could possibly try. Lowering his head, Izuna breathed into a white-furred ear, “Are they always like this?”

“That is not a question I can answer, Uchiha Izuna, for I see them rarely, and occasions like these are even fewer,” Mifuyu said, ice-blue eyes flicking to meet his. “But the cub has mentioned a few times about the love that his brother and sister-in-law hold for each other.”

Unhelpful. Still, Izuna nodded, murmuring a quiet “thanks” to the great leopard, because he had enough experience with summons to know that she might seem patient, but it didn’t mean that he could be so rude as to not follow the protocols that governed behaviour.

Then he turned his eyes back to Hashirama and Mito. This time, he didn’t look at _them_.

No, he fixed his gaze around the branches that surrounded the two of them. The ground had exploded outwards the moment Mito had ran into sight, Hashirama’s mokuton forcing seeds long buried into growth without needing to make a single hand seal. Izuna had gotten used enough to Hashirama’s power by now to ignore the overt sign of it and focus on the _details_.

The trunk was strange: thick, like most of the oaks that Hashirama’s mokuton had grown, but unlike those, this one seemed to be twisting into itself as it grew upwards. Izuna let his eyes travel down, taking in the roots, and a crease started to form on his brow as he realised that, even half-buried in the soil, he could tell that some of them overlapped the others. Then back upwards, with the branches…

Hashirama’s mokuton had not grown a single tree, Izuna realised with sinking horror, but _two_. Some of the leaves were lighter than the others – deep, waxy greens contrasting with brighter verdant ones – and that was the _only_ sign.

Somehow, when Hashirama had used his mokuton to catch himself and his wife in mid-air, he had chosen to grow two trees, so warped and snarled together that it was nearly impossible to tell them apart. Izuna wondered if he had done it deliberately.

He wondered if he even knew what that could _mean_. If _Mito_ knew. If either of them had even _noticed_.

Everything would be so much easier, Izuna thought wryly to himself, if he could make-believe that Hashirama was _actually_ stupid.

Slowly, the two of them pulled apart. Strands of red hair spilled over black cloth as Mito lifted her head and straightened her shoulders. As the branches fell away and the trunks withered and shrunk away from them, Mito turned and met the eyes of all those around her.

“Forgive me for my abrupt entrance,” she said, and the steadiness of her voice belied how she had been small and shaking in her husband’s arms just a few moments before. “But I felt my husband’s presence close by, and I…” she tried to hide her pause with a dainty step onto the soil, and did not entire succeed, “have missed him a great deal.”

“Look, Mito,” Madara called from where he was still cuddling Tobirama in his arms atop Matatabi’s back. Izuna wasn’t entirely sure how the massive chakra construct in the shape of a cat could withstand such grossness so close to her. “I’ve brought both your husband and your brother back, and they’re still in one piece.”

Tipping her head up, Mito smiled. It actually looked _sincere_. “Thank you,” she said. “Madara.”

Izuna blinked. Alright, he thought to himself. _This_ was something new.

Behind her, Hashirama shook himself like a puppy flinging water droplets from its fur after being dunked into a pond. The dried blood that had covered him for the entire day they had left Yamagakure was long gone, but Izuna could practically see the phantoms of dried blood flakes falling all around him as he dragged a hand through his still-tangled hair. 

“Has anything happened in the village while we were gone?” he asked his wife.

“Plenty,” Mito said, and leaned back instead of – as Izuna had expected – moving away when her husband wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “But first, Izuna-san,” Izuna blinked when those steely dark eyes suddenly focused on him. “Thank you for sending your crows to deliver the letter my husband wrote. The speed in which they did so has been of a great help.”

A great deal of words to say very little. Izuna shifted the scowl into an arched brow. “Oh? What did you do?”

“At times, with victories, what matters more is not that the battle was won, but how the story is told,” Mito said. One side of her mouth curved up higher than the other, baring teeth that flashed white against red-painted lips. “I have made it known to all clans of the Land of Fire exactly what led to Yamagakure’s destruction.”

Swinging his legs over Mifuyu’s back, Izuna landed on the ground with both feet. “You told the clans that Yamagakure attacked us by taking Tobirama,” he hazarded a guess, “and when Nii-san and Hashirama went to negotiate for his release, Yamagakure refused, and therefore forced their hand.”

A slim, dark red brow rose. “A very good guess, Izuna-san,” Mito murmured.

“I’m starting to clue into exactly how you work,” Izuna replied, tart. He looked at her for a long moment. “How much did your wording emphasise that this is an act of self-defence for the protection of one of our own?” He cocked his head, thinking. “No, it’s obvious that you hammered the point in.”

“Why?”

Rolling his eyes at the question – because it was clearly not because Mito wanted to know, but because she wanted _Izuna_ to be the one to explain – Izuna crossed his arms over his chest. “I might not be a sensor, but there would have been signs along the road here of other clans joining the village if they had already started, but I haven’t seen any.” He lifted another finger. “The only reason for that is because those clans would not want to lose either their current positions or their way of life.” The third finger rose. 

“If that’s the case, what Nii-san and Hashirama did to Yamagakure made for a very good reminder that the Senju and the Uchiha wield the greatest firepower among all of the clans, which will quell protests from those clans afraid to lose their positions.” His arms fell back to his sides, because he might as well hold up the whole hand instead of four fingers. “For those who need an incentive for change, changing the narrative from that of an accident to a deliberate act of protection will make them think that they can wield this power – _our_ power – for their own survival.”

He heaved a massive sigh. “Satisfied?”

Before Mito could reply, Madara’s barking laugh cut through the air. “Gods above,” he said, shaking his head and sending his ridiculous hair flying all over Tobirama’s face. “You haven’t been in the village for _months_, and yet you seem to know what’s going on better than me when I only left a couple of weeks ago.”

“Do I have to remind you again, Nii-san,” Izuna turned to his brother, giving him a flat stare, “about how this is exactly what I have been trained for?” 

Irritatingly, Madara only laughed again. “I’ve missed you, you little shit,” he said.

Izuna opened his mouth to retort. Before a single word to get out of him, however, Tobirama sneezed. He batted at Madara’s hair – and didn’t make any move to get out of his embrace – before he said, “There is something I don’t understand.”

“What is it, Tobirama?” Mito asked. Her eyes, Izuna noted with some amusement, were starting to narrow. No doubt it had something to do with how Tobirama was keeping his own eyes closed.

“Yamagakure was destroyed,” Tobirama said slowly, “and Yamagakure was a village under the direct control of the daimyo of the Land of Lightning.” He paused, as if waiting for nods, before he continued, “Why would the other clans want to join us when there is a very high chance that the Lightning Daimyo might declare war on us for Yamagakure’s destruction?”

“That,” Hashirama said, “is something I’m trying to not think about.”

“Not thinking about it doesn’t mean it won’t happen, Anija,” Tobirama said, practically taking the words out of Izuna’s mouth.

“That is something I did consider,” Mito nodded. “Which is why I started every letter with a reminder to the Clan Heads that we had extended the invitation long ago.”

“I do not see how that could…” Tobirama frowned.

“If the Lightning Daimyo wages war, he would not wage war against a single clan, or even two,” Madara said, sounding as if he was thinking aloud. “He would most likely declare every shinobi clan in the Land of Fire to be his enemy. Especially since our village’s creation was sanctioned by the Fire Daimyo.”

“In other words,” Tobirama said, looking and sounding like the pieces had snapped together for him, “every shinobi clan of the Land of Fire _must_ join the village, or they will be left to fend for themselves against the Lightning Daimyo’s attack, or caught within the crossfire of war.”

“Precisely,” Mito said, and smiled. 

“That does not seem to be a strong foundation upon which the village can stand,” Tobirama pointed out. “If the other clans feel themselves to be coerced, especially coerced into holding a subordinate position in particular…” 

“You’re fearing that there might be a rebellion in the future,” Izuna finished for him.

“Future is a generous estimate,” Tobirama shook his head. “I’m thinking that once the threat from the Lightning Daimyo was dealt with, we might have to deal with an insurgence. And that would be even deadlier, because it will be within the village’s walls itself.”

“You have in mind a solution, cub?” Mifuyu asked. Izuna gave her a startled look: it was a rare summon who had any interest in the politics that governed human societies.

Or maybe Yatagarasu was just a lazy bastard.

“Not so much a solution as a possibility that we can consider,” Tobirama said, folding his hands in his lap. “We include incentives.”

“Is it not enough to offer them the firepower of the Senju and the Uchiha?” Hashirama asked. “Or, well, mine and Madara’s.”

“That’s precisely the issue, Anija,” Tobirama said, turning his head slightly in is brother’s direction. “Think about how it looks from the perspective of the other clans: the two of you are powerful enough to destroy an entire village simply because they had displeased you. Such power is only considered desirable by one who could control and own it.”

Hashirama’s face froze. “Ah,” he said.

“Exactly,” Tobirama nodded. “It will only be yet another cause of fear.”

“In other words,” Madara said, “the only choice they have right now seems to be ‘join us or die,’ and that’s not exactly tenable. Not for the long run.”

“Not much for the short, either,” Tobirama said. “Like I said, we will be fortunate if the other clans only decide to rebel after the threat from the Lightning Daimyo has faded.” He paused. “That is, if they did not decide that dying is preferably to losing their usual way of life or their power.”

“Hah,” Madara said.

Silence fell. Hashirama and Mito, Izuna noted, looked rather frozen. He couldn’t be sure if Hashirama was even _breathing_.

“I have never,” Matatabi said, her low rumble effectively cutting through the silence, “heard a group of humans put as much so much thought into something they are building.” She paused. There was something akin to a shrug in her voice as she continued, “They usually seemed to slap something together without thinking and hope for the best.”

“That cannot be,” Tobirama said, a crease appearing between his brows. “All builders and town-planners have to consider their plans carefully. It is a matter of necessity.”

“Hm,” Matatabi said.

“Forgive me,” Mito said, finally jerking out of her stupor and focusing on Matatabi. Placing her hands by one hip, she folded her knees. “I am Uzumaki Mito.” The barest hint of hesitation. “Hashirama’s wife, and Tobirama’s sister-in-law.”

“Mito,” Matatabi said, inclining her great head in returning greeting. “Tobirama has told me about you.”

“Hey, that’s not fair,” Madara protested immediately. “Why does _Mito_ get called by her name, while I don’t?”

“Do I not use your name,” Matatabi drawled, mismatched eyes flickering back to look at Izuna’s older brother, “Tobirama’s Madara?”

“You are,” Madara turned his head to stare at the sky, “_such_ a cat.”

“I will take that as a compliment,” Matatabi said. Then, turning back to Mito, she nodded again. “Well met. It was your husband who has invited me here.”

That, Izuna thought, would be his cue to turn his attention back to Hashirama. For a man who had dreamt up the village in the first place, he had been uncommonly silent. Now that Izuna was _really_ looking at him, he realised that Hashirama’s eyes looked as if… unfocused? What thoughts could he have that would take up so much of his focus that he had stopped listening to—

Hashirama moved like lightning, bringing two of his hands together. When palm met palm, a sudden _crack_ like a thunderclap rang out.

Izuna barely had a flash of red streaks lining Hashirama’s eyes before teeth brushed over the nape of his neck. He yelped, trying to push away the threat before he realised it was those were _Kazuyuki’s_ fangs, and the leopard was trying to drag him down. Izuna’s back slammed against the ground just as he saw Mifuyu jump into the air, vines bursting out of the soil around her, reaching for Matatabi.

The vines wrapped around Madara and Tobirama both, winding around them even as Izuna’s brother started yelling incoherent curses. Mifuyu ducked her head, grabbing their cocooned bodies between her massive fangs before she flipped backwards, heading back down. At the same time, a different set of vines wound around Mito, yanking her into Izuna’s direction. He barely had the time to open his arms so his torso could serve as her cushion as she crash-landed right on top of him. 

Izuna shoved Mito off to the side, scrambling back to his feet. Kazuyuki snarled, and cloth ripped as the leopard pulled him down to his knees. But Izuna had enough time to see Matatabi grow in size, her head cresting over the top of the trees, at the same time as someone else – some_thing_ else – bright orange and of the same size slammed straight into her.

Matatabi landed on her back, skidding across the ground. Grass ripped out of the soil, and a thick tree snapped into two when her shoulders hit it. She snarled – a low, inhuman sound – before she leapt forward. Lightning-blue mixed dizzyingly with orange as the two great _things_ tussled, snapping branches and crushing roots. Leaves fell in great numbers around them, obscuring Izuna’s sight until he snarled under his breath and activated the Sharingan.

_There_. The thing fighting Matatabi was a huge fox, as big— no, _bigger_ than she was, because she had two tails and it had _nine_, and it was using them like extra limbs, trying to wrap around her throat, and Matatabi’s own two tails were trying to bat them away. Izuna tried to straighten, to see better, but Kazuyuki growled a warning and shoved him down to land on his stomach, knocking all breath out of him, before the great leopard stepped right on top his spine.

“Can’t—” Izuna gasped out, “—breathe.”

“Stay _down_,” Kazuyuki’s paw slammed down on his shoulder. “This is not a fight that puny humans like you can handle.”

No, not puny humans like him. But Izuna could already see threads of chakra, shining green even through the perpetual-red of the Sharingan, starting to creep forward. Hashirama, Izuna thought wildly. Hashirama could stop this, he could—

“Anija—”

“Husband—”

“_STOP_!” Tobirama and Mito’s voice rang out together.

The vines retreated. Izuna barely had the time to slap his hands over his own ears before a massive _roar_ resounded. It came neither from Matatabi or the fox, but the _forest_ itself. Then, before Izuna could even parse how trees could shriek, massive wooden structures, looking like the gates of shrines, started falling from the sky.

They landed hard around them, making the ground shudder with every impact. From where their bases dug into soil, vines started crawling upwards, crisscrossing from one side of the gate to the other and hardening immediately into solid wood. 

It had surely been less a minute, but Hashirama had already cut the entire area off the rest of the forest. 

Izuna rolled his eyes: there was no doubt that Hashirama was trying to prevent the fight from getting close to the village. That idiot likely hadn’t realised that he had literally locked all of them in with the battling monsters at the same time.

Then Matatabi made a sound, sharp and angry, and _flung_ the fox sideways. It flew through the air, tails crashing through the trees, before slamming back-first into one of the walls Hashirama had just built. 

They held. Izuna let out a breath, then rolled his shoulders.

“Kazuyuki,” he murmured. “Thank you, but you have to let me go.”

“My summoner will be displeased if you’re injured on my watch,” Kazuyki protested, amber eyes fixing on Izuna’s.

“Shut up, I know you like me,” Izuna said, grinning out of the corner of his mouth. “But I really need to go so I can figure out what the hell is going on and stop this fight before it crushes the entire forest.” He paused. “Hashirama likely can regrow it in a few minutes, but that’s not the point.” 

“What, Uchiha Izuna, _is_ the point?” Kazuyuki arched a brow.

“That fox is likely the brother that Matatabi was talking about, and he’s attacking her because she’s in his territory,” Izuna said. “More importantly, I think Mito _knows_ the fox.” Why else would she have asked for her husband to not attack it, after all? “And if she does, it means she knows what he wants.”

“That doesn’t explain to me what you’re trying to do,” Kazuyuki said.

“I have to earn my keep around these parts,” Izuna said. This time, when he wriggled, Kazuyuki finally moved from his spine. Straightening, he leaned back to crack his back slightly – the leopard was damnably _heavy_ – before he ducked instinctively as a branch came flying in his direction. “Don’t worry so much about me, Kazuyuki. I’m really hard to kill.”

Then, before the leopard could protest, Izuna started to run.

He had a dodge a few more flying projectiles before he found the first person he sought. But he didn’t stop, merely shouting a, “Try to activate the Rinnegan, Nii-san! When you have it, come find me!” over his shoulder. After a moment, he tacked on, “And you, Tobirama, stay still and don’t get brained!” before he jumped, using a few pieces of debris to get higher, until—ah _hah_! He changed direction in mid-air, and started running that way the moment his feet hit the ground again.

Mito was with her husband, which made things easier on him. He skidded a stop next to the two of them, realised it was a bad idea, and threw himself down to the ground so he could _roll_ in their direction instead.

“—don’t understand why you won’t let me _restrain_ them, Mito!” Hashirama was saying, sounding agitated. “They’re going to end up crushing someone at this rate!”

“Because if you restrain them, they’re likely to get pissed off, and we don’t want them pissed off,” Izuna answered, cutting Mito off before she could speak. He flung a few leaves out of the way. “Mito, does that huge fox have a name?” 

“He does, but I do not know it,” Mito said. “Izuna-san, what are you—”

“What’s he like?” Izuna cut her off.

“Huh?”

“Does he have a personality? Likes and dislikes? Favourite hobby?” Izuna flung out haphazardly. “Some basic idea of what kind of shit he might actually like?”

“Izuna,” Hashirama said, slowly turning towards him. “Are you going to try to _talk_ to him?”

“First prize for the walking tree!” Izuna shot him a thumbs-up. “Come on, Mito. Feed me something.” 

“He…” Mito’s head ducked down to stare at the grass. No, wait, she was avoiding being brained by another piece of flying wood. “He seemed to be rather pleased when I addressed him as ‘Tenko-sama.’”

_Tenko_. Heavenly fox. At this point, Izuna was starting to think that he was talking to more youkai, gods, and monsters than he was with humans on a daily basis.

He’d chalk that up to the era he lived in and the people he surrounded himself with, he thought, and focused. Nodding to Hashirama and Mito, he flashed them a smile. “I’ll talk to them, don’t worry!”

Before they could protest, he had already bitten his thumb. Then, with his palm on the ground, he muttered, “Kuchiyose no Jutsu!” and set off into a sprinting _jump_.

Yatagarasu appeared right before his momentum started to fail. The great crow grabbed him by the collar of his tsumugi and tossed him up into the air. Izuna somersaulted instinctively, tucking his knees to his chest, and landed on his shins and knees on Yatagarasu’s back_._ He rolled his shoulders back.

“I regret giving you the contract,” Yatagarasu grumbled as a greeting. “First you had me fly into a village on fire, and now you brought me _here_. I _hate _cats. I hate foxes even more.”

“And you complain like an old woman,” Izuna teased, kneading the back of the great crow’s neck with one hand. “Are you going to help me or not?”

The huge black beak tipped upwards. “Tell me what you want, brat of a summoner,” he ordered in a huff. 

“Just fly above them while I yell,” Izuna instructed. “And _no _snide comments! I’m pretty sure they’ll hear you.”

Wind whipped through Izuna’s hair as Yatagarasu obeyed, diving down. Izuna had to dodge a few pieces of debris flying his way, and decided to flop stomach-first on the crow’s back as they approached the battling pair.

“Matatabi-sama!” Izuna hollered. “Tenko-sama!”

The huge fox’s head rose from where it was trying to bite down onto Matatabi’s shoulder. “You told them your _name_?” he roared.

“Rightly earned!” Matatabi snarled back. One of her tails slammed straight into the fox’s head, throwing it off her body.

Izuna opened his mouth to yell again. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a _very _familiar head of wild black hair. He fought down a grin.

His Nii-san would, of course, never let him down. Patting Yatagarasu’s back, he straightened. “Down! Down to where Nii-san is!”

Yatagarasu’s head dipped down. There was a moment when his already-massive eyes widened even further, clearly having spotted just _where_ Madara was. “I’m starting to hate your brother!” he yelled, but he still obeyed. Izuna really had to burn a few proper offerings for him after this. 

Madara stood at the side, just barely a distance from where the fox and Matatabi were growling at each other. Izuna caught his eye and nodded, and Madara ran straight in between them.

His brother might sometimes have no idea about Izuna’s plans, but he had never disappointed him with how well he could still follow them.

“You,” the fox snarled. “_Uchiha_.”

“Uchiha,” Madara agreed. He tipped his head up, and smiled like the mad bastard that all of the rumours liked to paint him to be. Izuna barely heard the fox’s sharp intake of breath when it noticed Madara’s eyes – a series of concentric circles backgrounded in light purple; the _Rinnegan_ of legend – before Madara slammed his arms outwards, fingers pointing upwards and pressed together.

“_Tendou: Shinra Tensei_!” Madara shouted. Izuna only had a brief moment to wonder what the hell he was talking about when a rather familiar force – definitely not a fuuton jutsu – seemed to explode from Madara’s palms to slam into Matatabi and the chakra fox both.  
_  
_Matatabi clearly knew what was going on, because she had already lowered her body, digging her claws _and_ the tips of both tails into the soil to keep her balance. But the fox…

The fox _flew_, tearing through the trees before hitting one of Hashirama’s walls. The insides of its ears, Izuna noted, were black.

As Madara lowered his arms and went to – Izuna presumed – pick Tobirama up from where he had left him, Izuna swooped down and approached the fox.

“Tenko-sama,” he said, and made a low bow upon Yatagarasu’s back. “I sit here upon the back of the divine messenger, Yatagarasu-sama, and invite you to a conference of the gods.”

“As befits,” Mito’s voice rang out suddenly behind him, “one who has both strength and power to declare independence from Tamamo-no-Mae-sama, she who rules over the foxes of both mortal and summoning realms.” 

Hah. Mito had caught on even faster than Izuna had thought she would, and she had given him exactly what he needed to pull off this farce. He hid a smile.

“A conference amongst the gods,” the fox repeated, each one overenunciated. As it straightened, Yatagarasu glided back and flew up so Izuna could keep eye contact with it. Izuna patted Yatagarasu’s head in thanks. 

“Yes,” Izuna nodded.

“And who,” the fox drawls, “dare to put themselves on the same level as me?”

“One whom the great ruler of foxes has chosen for her summoner,” Izuna swept his hand towards Mito, who bent her knees immediately. “One who grew walls in moments when it would take years.” To Hashirama’s credit, he caught on immediately, placing a hand over his chest as he bowed down low. 

Then Izuna tilted his head, listening. Once those two pairs of familiar footsteps neared, he continued, “One who had retrieved the Rinnegan from the realm of legend and claimed it for himself.” Madara dipped his head down into a graceless nod, thankfully hiding his clearly-confused expression. “And one,” he paused dramatically, “acknowledged for years as Storm-Ruler, and God-Speaker.” Tobirama opened his mouth, clearly to protest, but obediently ducked his head down when Madara tugged on his tsumugi. 

Luckily Touka and Hikaku were still back in the village. Izuna didn’t know what he could bullshit out of thin air as titles for _them_. 

“You?” the fox fixed his eyes on him. “What about you?”

“I am a crow,” Izuna gave another bow, “and thus a lowly messenger.”

Madara let out a muffled snort. Izuna resisted the urge to throw a rock at his head.

“A conference,” the fox repeated. “What about?”

Now _that_ was the issue, wasn’t it? Izuna was midway through rephrasing ‘can you maybe not attack us and can we have permission to build the village’ into formal language when Matatabi’s voice rang out.

“The way to peace,” she said. “The complete extinction of war.” 

Silence. When the fox said, “What?” Izuna was _very_ tempted to agree. And, from the slightly poleaxed look on Hashirama’s and Madara’s faces – and Mito’s, though she hid it much better – they felt the same way.

“I did not come here to intrude on your territory, _Ani_,” Matatabi said. Izuna blinked. Did she just… Had she _addressed_ him using the same term for ‘brother’ as humans would use when referring to him in his absence? That was so _strange_. “I came because I was invited to visit the village they are going to build, and I accepted the invite because…”

She hissed out a long breath from between her fangs. “They did not attack but, but instead protected me, even when I was on a rampage and seemed to be keeping one of their own captive. They acknowledged me. And, most importantly,” her head tipped down, mismatched eyes fixed on the fox’s black ones. “Tobirama told me that there is a way to ensure our father’s dream could come true.” She paused. 

“A way in which _we_ can make the world he wanted come true.”

The fox snorted. “You’re the only one of us still holding on to thoughts of the old man,” it said, tossing its head to the side.

Matatabi cocked her head to the side. “If you tell me that you’re not at all interested, Ani, I will think you a liar.” 

They stared at each other for a long moment before the fox nodded. “Fine,” he said. “Talk.”

“Before that,” Mito said suddenly, “we will like to ask for your name.”

“My name?” the fox said, practically a bark. “You think I would give you my _name_?”

“We will like to _ask_ for it,” Mito said. “We will beg for it, if need be.” Then, placing both hands over her stomach, she bowed so low that her back became parallel with the ground. “To give thanks.”

Oh. _Oh_!

The fox kept his silence, but Mito seemed unfazed as she continued, “Years before the formation of the village, two clans in the Land of Iron joined forces against a common enemy. One of them, the Takeda, gave salt to the other, the Uesugi, both because the latter had run out of salt, and as a gesture of goodwill. When Tobirama, he who commands storms and speaks to gods, heard of the tale, he was inspired about his own clan’s situation. But he could do nothing.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Izuna watched as Madara place a hand on Tobirama’s arm, stilling him. When, Izuna wondered, had Madara learned to read _Mito_ better than her own brother-in-law could? Granted, Tobirama couldn’t see her anymore, but surely with how bad he had said his eyes had always been…

No matter.

“Then, a year or so ago, the gods answered his prayers in the form of _you_, Tenko-sama. You took a stroll. Your strength inspires awe and terror, and so Tobirama rushed and found Izuna, he who rides upon the divine messenger. For the first time in generations, a Senju and an Uchiha united in their desire for peace between their clans.” Mito folded gracefully to the ground, formed a diamond with both hands, and touched her forehead against her fingertips.

“It was your presence who gave us a chance to build this village. Please give us your name so we might give thanks.”

Izuna bit _hard_ on the inside of his cheek so he didn’t start laughing because— surely only Mito had the ability to state, quite baldly, to the fox that he was seen as an enemy – the common enemy against whom all of them would have and could still band against – while telling him that they owed him a great debt for a _walk_ he had taken.

And all while _demanding_ for him to tell them his name! And not having said a single word that was untrue!

Gods above, if Izuna was grateful to this damned fox for anything, it was that he would never have to face Uzumaki Mito in the political arena. There was no way he could _win_.

The sound of the fox’s sharp, barking laughter dragged Izuna back to the present. It had thrown its head back, ears flat against his head, while its shoulders shook.

“You are no mere summoner,” it said. “You are a thousand-year vixen of your own right, human flesh you might wear or not.” it shook his head. “Very well.”

Falling onto its front paws, it lowered its head until its ears brushed the ground. “My name,” its said, voice a low rumble, “is Kurama.” When he lifted his eyes, he met Mito’s, and Mito’s alone. “I know your name already, but give it to me again.” His fangs flashed in the dying sunlight. “Properly.”

Straightening back up, Mito placed both hands demurely on her lap. “Uzumaki Mito,” she murmured, and lowered her eyes, “at your service, Kurama-sama.”

Izuna gave them a few moments more to stare at each other before he cleared his throat. “Now,” he said, looking at everyone gathered. He winked when he saw Kazuyuki come up to flank Tobirama’s side, and gave Mifuyu on Tobirama’s other side the same treatment for good measure. 

“Is everyone ready to confer?”

** _END ARC TWO: GIVEN STRENGTH AND PERMISSION_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me so much fucking trouble that it took me something like two or three _weeks_ before I could actually finish it, holy fuckballs. (Also, at this time of writing, I have exceeded 200k words. This fic was meant to be shorter than 100k. FML.)
> 
> Anyway. When I finished my first (really badly-written) novel, I gave it to a friend who said something that changed my entire writing philosophy. He said, and I quote, “I read the first chapter and I didn’t want to read anything else.” Because the first chapter of every novel is, like the first paragraph of a newspaper article, meant to be a microcosm of the entire thing. Everything in the first chapter _must_ be significant.
> 
> I’ve followed that rule ever since. So, yes, everything – _everything_ – from the first chapter is important. :>
> 
> Next chapter is a new arc, and a timeskip. So, no, there will be no written conference, but you _will _find out everything they talk about. If you're really impatient to know what exactly is Tobirama’s plan to forever stop war, please look again at the summary. I’ve hit three out of four things mentioned; this is the fourth.


	23. the nibi takes a leap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** Internalised ableism and graphic descriptions of dissection and experimentation on cute animals in the first scene.

** _ARC THREE: THE RIVER CARVES THE LAND_ **

Beneath his hand, the tiny heart beat steadily, each minute flutter like the breath of a butterfly’s wings against his fingertips. The thick arteries and thinner veins that covered the lump of muscle bulged with every beat in a way that should be terribly ugly but instead only maintained the gentle beauty. Maybe, Hikaku thought, because it was so small.

He lifted his eyes.

The monkey’s gaze was fixed straight ahead, large eyes glassy as it stared into absolutely nothing. Caught in the Sharingan’s genjutsu, it now thought that it was back in the forests around the village where it had been before Hashirama’s vines had caught it. Hikaku knew well enough his own skill with the Sharingan that it could feel no pain, but – he cast his gaze back down where the poor creature’s ribs had been carved right open to expose its heart – he still found that a little difficult to believe.

“Are you ready?”

Months of living with Tobirama in the Uchiha compound had gotten Hikaku used to the sound of his voice. Perhaps it was the months of isolation, perhaps it was the monkey’s blood that covered his hands entirely, but Hikaku couldn’t help but flinch slightly at the tonelessness. He turned his head.

Tobirama stood on the other side of the bench, one hand placed upon the polished surface. His fingers had curved lightly, as if his nails were trying to root themselves into the wood so as to better use it to sense his surroundings and, more significantly, the experiment that Hikaku was helping him conduct.

Nodding, Hikaku picked up the scalpel from where he had laid it to the side. One light brush of the blade against the pad of his own thumb drew a thin slice of blood to the surface. He wiped it, and tucked that hand away so his blood would not contaminate the experiment subject. “In three,” he said. “Two, one—”

He drove the scalpel down, straight into the monkey’s heart.

The metal juddered lightly as the heart tried to beat. Muscles tore themselves into pieces against the edges of the blade. Blood spurted, spraying the carved-open ribs, staining than irreparably. At the back of his mind, Hikaku could feel the chakra drain of his active Sharingan slowly lessen as the gentsuju faded from the monkey’s dying brain.

As its lungs slowly flooded with blood, the monkey twitched. The tiniest of protests wedged inside its throat, and did not escape.

Hikaku yanked the scalpel out. In exactly the same moment, Tobirama slammed his hand down.

A seal blossomed into being immediately, ink crawling over red as if the blood was solid paper instead of liquid. As Hikaku watched, Sharingan spinning, Tobirama’s chakra trailed out of his fingers in fine, tightly-controlled threads to coil close around the tiny heart.

The ink acted like a bandage pasted on top of the wound, immediately staunching the flow of blood. Then it was akin to watching the stab in reverse: bright red slowly retreated from the lungs back into the arteries and veins as torn muscles folded back inward, the tears stitching back together centimetre by centimetre. The darker red of chakra coils started to push against the black of the seal as they reformed within the muscles and vessels. 

Mere moments later, the heart looked as whole as it had been before Hikaku had driven the scalpel through it.

But the chakra coils remained dark. Undeveloped though they might be in an animal, those coils _should_ thrum with the chakra that was due to every single living thing. The heart did not beat. The lungs did not move.

On top of the lab bench, Hikaku’s hand started to clench. It had worked for the rats and the rabbit, so why didn’t it—

A spark. Hikaku’s eyes fixed upon it almost immediately, barely daring to breathe. Opposite him, Tobirama inhaled sharply through his nose. Then he drew his hand back.

Hikaku barely had a moment to notice the soft crackle of lightning from Tobirama’s _hand_ before fingers jabbed inyo the raw, vulnerable heart before immediately pulling away.

The monkey’s entire body jolted. If it was still awake, if it had any consciousness left at all, it would have shrieked as its torso _lifted_ upwards, chasing the lightning as if it was water and the heart was thirsty. Hikaku opened his mouth, about to demand for Tobirama to explain, but Tobirama didn’t even seem to notice his presence now, focused entirely on gathering more lightning between his fingertips. He seemed frozen in his position, bolts of blue-white running up and down his arm—

_Oh_. Tobirama couldn’t see. Now that the monkey’s chakra had been entirely dimmed, he had nothing to guide him for his aim. It was likely pure luck that his fingers had landed accurately on the monkey’s heart in the first place.

Hikaku lunged forward, both hands clenching around Tobirama’s wrist. He barely managed to keep himself steady as he brought that hand down and— there, the pad of the index finger stabbing right into the centre. 

The monkey jerked again, shuddering from chest outwards. The jagged edges of its sawn-through ribs gleamed underneath the bright sunlight streaming through the ranma. Then Hikaku wasn’t looking at the grotesque sight anymore, because—

Because the heart was beating. Tiny, uneven beats, but it was moving by its own accord again. And the chakra coils around it, barely reformed, were started to light up within Hikaku’s Sharingan-sight. His lips parted, staring at the lungs, hoping— _hoping_—

They started to move.

“It _works_,” Hikaku breathed. “It works! Now we can— Touka-san—”

“No,” Tobirama said, dropping the word like a stone upon the porcelain of Hikaku’s elation. “Not until we have tested it several more times.” 

“But,” Hikaku started to protested, but Tobirama was already shaking his head.

“My eyes might be mine to ruin, Hikaku-san,” Tobirama said, “but Touka-nee’s heart is not.”

Hikaku’s teeth clicked back shut. He turned his eyes from Tobirama back to the monkey tied to the slab on the laboratory bench. Reaching out, he pressed his fingertips lightly to the unsteady heart. Its weak flutters thudded against his skin, both too fast and too shallow to match his pulse.

He could not imagine Touka’s heart like this. Not Touka, whom he had faced in battle countless times before the birth of the peace agreement between their clans; who had with her ferocity and determination and skill, forced him to entirely change his mind about what women could be capable of. Not Touka, who had been akin to a rock during their travel back to the village, never breathing a word of complaint no matter how many hours she had to carry him on her back. 

She hadn’t been like Izuna, who would have made jokes. In fact, she had been almost entirely silent throughout the trip, speaking only to ask if he was comfortable or if he had any opinions about where they should make a rest stop. But they had been pressed so close that he could feel the steady thudding of her heart against his own ribs, and on the days when the ache of his legs had grown nigh unbearable, he had used that to not lose himself to the pain.

No, this wasn’t like Touka’s heartbeat at all.

But wasn’t it still better than nothing? Touka had no heart right now, the muscle literally shredded to pieces by the tail of the monster – the monster that Izuna and Madara had _brought back _and was even now living right by the village’s gates – and it had been a miracle born of her impressive willpower that she had lived long enough to be wrapped in Mito’s cocoon. When Hashirama returned, Hikaku had thought, with the rumours of his prodigious ability with medical ninjutsu, he would be able to heal her.

He couldn’t. Hashirama had stood there by Touka’s bedside, head bowed and eyes shadowed by his hair, and said that medical ninjutsu could only guide and accelerate a body’s natural healing. Heart muscles could not heal on their own, much less to the point of regenerating entirely from the scant bits of tissue that were left.

Tobirama’s way was the only way. 

“Please,” Hikaku whispered. “Explain to me again why you can’t simply give her the seal that you had used on yourself.”

Silence. Hikaku half-expected Tobirama to tell him to go away or, worse still, remind him that he had his Sharaingan on the last few times Tobirama had explained, and he could and should simply revisit his own memories.

Instead, Tobirama sighed. “Alright,” he said. His shoulders were curved inwards and bent even as he hoisted himself up to sit at the edge of the laboratory bench. If Hikaku could see his eyes right now, he was sure that he would see shadows tucked into the corners.

But when Tobirama spoke, his voice was steady. “When Izuna stabbed me, I had on me a seal that transfers Anija’s chakra to myself,” he started.” Hikaku nodded; he had seen that seal when Tobirama had returned – along with everyone else – two weeks or so ago. Then he remembered, again, that Tobirama could not see, and made a small hum instead. “The regenerative properties of Anija’s chakra healed me nearly instantaneously.” Another hum, and Tobirama leaned forward with one hand splayed flat on the bench.

“When I further refined the seal, it was for the reversing the damage Madara’s eyes had taken from the use of the Mangekyou.” He paused. “For your eyes and Izuna’s eyes as well, Hikaku.”

“Thank you for the thought,” Hikaku said, rote.

Tobirama’s fingers drummed on the laboratory bench for a long moment before he heaved out another breath. “Never mind that, then. Madara’s eyes, and my wound, are both extremely different from that which Touka-nee had received.” Tobirama paused. Hikaku hummed again to show that he was listening. 

“The damage done to Madara’s eyes is a matter of degeneration,” Tobirama said, the hand not on the bench waving vaguely in the air. “The original structures of the ocular nerve and its surrounding chakra coils still remained. When Izuna stabbed me, a part of my lung has been pierced.” He paused, cocking his head slightly to the side. “The similarity between these two wounds is that only _part_ of the organ has been damaged, not nearly the whole of it.”

Hikaku closed his eyes. “Yes,” he said.

“Kurama’s tail went straight through Touka-nee’s chest,” Tobirama said, and Hikaku wanted so much to hate him for using the fox’s name; for thinking that it was worth being called by name instead of _monster_. “The majority of her heart was destroyed.” He wanted to hate Tobirama, too, for sounding so calm when talking about something so horrifying. “Though there is enough heart tissue to regenerate a completely new heart, the template that remains is inadequate.” 

“I know,” Hikaku said. “But—”

“The seal cannot be used, Hikaku-san,” Tobirama interrupted him ruthlessly, “because it is _mindless_; it can only duplicate cells according to the tissue that remain in her chest. If I use those now to force her heart to regenerate entirely,” he let out a long, shuddering breath, “there’s a very high chance that it would end up growing in the wrong place. That,” _stop_, Hikaku wanted to beg, _please stop_, “the arteries and veins that remain won’t connect properly to it, and she will end up drowning in her own blood when it floods into her lungs.”

Hikaku’s nails dug into his palm.

“I need to modify the seal,” Tobirama continued in that calm, flat voice. “I need to test it multiple times. Because, Hikaku-san, if I make a wrong move at any point, Touka-nee _will _die, and die painfully.” His swallow rang out, overly-loud, in the silence of the room. “My carelessness has cost me my eyes, but that is a price I can and must pay on my own. I will not – I _cannot_ – make Touka-nee pay for my carelessness.” 

“Perhaps I am overstepping my bounds,” Hikaku heard his own voice say, “but I doubt that Touka-san will be happy hearing you disparage yourself like this, besshitsu-san.”

Tobirama shook his head as if to dodge the comment. When he spoke again, his voice was so soft that it could barely be heard: 

“Your legs are not mine to ruin either, Hikaku-san.”

Carefully not looking down – or up, for the matter, because then the height difference between the standing Tobirama and himself would be very obvious – Hikaku turned his gaze to the door. “I have already gotten used to my current condition. There is no need for a change.”

Tobirama tilted his head towards him. He had started a habit of wearing a plain black blindfold covering his eyes, the dull cloth stark against his strikingly-pale skin and hair. “If there is a possibility of improvement,” he said slowly, “I will always take it.” He paused. “Unless, of course, you truly do not wish for your legs to be returned to you.”

It might be a futile gesture – it wasn’t as if Tobirama could tell – but Hikaku looked away. His skittering gaze landed on the monkey still laid on the laboratory bench, and he hissed out a breath when he realised that its diaphragm was expanding and contracting with slow breaths. The heart, too, had calmed into a steady beat.

The monkey should be dead, but now it lived as if it had never been harmed; as if its ribs had not been cut open and its skin and muscles peeled back to expose the heart.

Hikaku took that small muscle in between his thumb and index finger. He closed his eyes, focusing on the quiet _thump-thump-thump_ against his fingertips before he gently pinched his fingers together. He counted the beats, one by one, and listened to the sounds of his own breaths wheezing in his own throat, growing faster and faster, until he squeezed _hard _and felt the muscles burst from the pressure of its own beating. 

Blood splattered all over his skin. The monkey rattled out its dying breath. Hikaku wiped his fingers off on the bench. 

Then he scrubbed a little harder when the blood smeared instead of disappearing. His nails were starting to scrape against skin when—

Two pale hands slammed down on his wrists. Hikaku raised his head, but Tobirama’s expressionless face – even more so now that neither his eyes nor his eyebrows were visible – gave no hints about what he might have sensed, much less what he thought about it.

“Izuna is outside,” Tobirama said. It wasn’t a question.

But Hikaku answered anyway, just so he had something to say: “We’re visiting Touka-san together,” he said, staring down at his pinned wrists. The blood had gotten everywhere. If he hadn’t been wearing the usual dark Uchiha blue, the stains on his sleeves would be visible, too. “I know that there’s no use, because she won’t be able to hear us, but…”

“There is no need to justify yourself to me,” Tobirama said. Leaning back, he lifted his hands from Hikaku’s wrists, fingers of one tapping down the length of the laboratory bench until he found the wet rag that they usually kept there. He handed it over. “Thank you for the help.”

“Madara-sama refuses to choose a successor to my position as a record-keeper,” Hikaku reminded lightly. He kept his eyes on his own hands as he wiped off the blood. “I should thank you instead for giving me something to occupy my time.”

Tobirama tilted his head to the side. Not for the first time, Hikaku really wished that he wouldn’t wear the blindfold; those eyes might be sightless now, but surely there would still be _some_ kind of expression that could be seen. And if not them, then the eyebrows.

“Your presence here for the past few days have been absolutely necessary,” Tobirama said, each word carefully and – it seemed – deliberately enunciated. “I could not have done this without your aid.”

Letting the cloth fall from his hands – they were as clean as they could get by now – Hikaku nodded. “You’re welcome,” he said, because Tobirama wasn’t giving him much of a chance for much else.

Nodding, Tobirama took the cloth from him. How could he _tell_ where it was in the first place? Hikaku pondered the range and sensitivity of Tobirama’s sensing, seeking out and overturning the memories he had stored in both his head and the Sharingan to try to figure out an answer.

Better that than to focus on the fact that Tobirama had to push him out. All this time, he had been deliberately and assiduously ignoring the chair he had been sitting on – unfair of him, he admitted freely, because it had taken Hashirama some time and effort to figure out how to work his mokuton around and into the bits and pieces of steel that were necessary to make the wheels turn – but it was impossible to do so when the chair was moving, and not by his own efforts either.

“We really have to find a way for you to wheel yourself around,” Izuna said in lieu of an actual greeting at the door.

Hikaku looked up. But before he could speak, Izuna was jerking his head back down with two fingers on his chin, and his smile was crooked. “Would that make you feel better?”

“There’s nothing wrong with me, Izuna-sama,” Hikaku protested immediately.

“Of course not,” Izuna said. Despite his words, his _tone_ sounded that he didn’t believe Hikaku in the slightest.

Then he was turning away. “Tobirama? Do you need help with anything else in there?”

“I have already memorised the layout, and there is only clean-up left to be done,” Tobirama said, sounding distracted. “So, there is no need.” 

When Hikaku craned his head back, he saw Tobirama’s hand tapping lightly on the doorframe before disappearing behind the wall. When it appeared again, he was holding onto a thin bamboo cane. The tip made a hollow _thud_ when it hit the floor, and the length rang out with a sharper _clack_ when it hit the door’s edge. Tobirama’s hand found the knob easily, and was midway through pushing it back shut when he paused.

There was something almost like a bob in his throat before he shook his head, white strands of hair falling messily over his black blindfold. “Please greet Touka-nee for me,” he murmured softly. “I’m sorry that I’m taking so long, but—”

“Better longer and accurate, than shorter and ending with an accident,” Izuna finished for him. Hikaku frowned, trying to figure out the look in Izuna’s eyes, and blinked when it suddenly vanished. “Nii-san will be over soon to drag you out for food. Clean slower so that you can force him to help.”

Tobirama opened his mouth. Then he clearly changed his mind, because he only nodded and closed the door with a sharp _thud_.

“Well then,” Izuna said, walking around Hikaku to settle himself behind the chair, “shall we go to see Touka?”

“You’re the one moving me, Izuna-sama,” Hikaku pointed out, unable to stop the dryness of his tone even though he knew it was rude. “That should be my question instead.”

“Such disrespect,” Izuna said, tossing his hair back with an exaggerated huff that nearly made Hikaku smile. “Let’s go, then, before she starts grumbling about us being late.”

“Touka-san can’t _talk_ right now, Izuna-sama,” Hikaku pointed out.

“She’ll find a way to complain,” Izuna said, voice dropping into some ridiculous mimicry of seriousness. “Or worse, laugh at us. Because she’s the absolute worst in that way.”

For some reason, Hikaku found himself laughing at that. The sound burst out of him, overly loud for the quiet area where Hashirama had hurriedly built Tobirama’s lab in the Uchiha’s district of the village. He tried to shove a hand over his mouth to stifle it, but Izuna suddenly snatched that hand, gripping tight and tangling their fingers together. 

Hikaku closed his eyes. He brought their joined hands to his own shoulder, and held it there. It must be a little uncomfortable for Izuna, because he had to bend himself over to keep his hand there while continuing to push Hikaku, but he didn’t say a word of complain.

Maybe, Hikaku thought, Izuna had needed the sound of Hikaku’s laughter as much as he had needed to laugh.

He stopped himself there, refusing to go further. There was no point in that particular line of thought. Not right now. Not while Touka still needed the chakra cocoon to stay alive. Not while Hikaku was still…

Well, not while he was still like this.

Best to keep silent until a better time.

(He wasn’t sure if there ever would be.)

The forest surrounding the village had once been a noisy place, filled with the constant chirping of birds and the rustling of small animals as they scurried around and under the litter and rotting wood. Nowadays, it was so quiet within the shade of the heavy leaves that even the smallest squeak by a squirrel seemed to echo endlessly.

Perhaps some of them knew, and understood, just why a few of the rats, rabbits, and monkeys were gone. But it was far more likely, Mito thought as she stared up the heavy canopy of one particular tree, that the animals were far cleverer than humans when it came to spotting danger: they didn’t need a monster to take on a monstrous form to know what it was.

Pulling up the sleeves of her half-komon, Mito bent to tuck the extra cloth of her hakama out of the way. Her eyes landed briefly on the seal on her ankle – which allowed her to draw chakra from her husband, allowing her to remain an active shinobi even as her own was constantly drained from maintaining the time-stopping seal and chakra cocoon keeping Touka alive – before she jerked her head away and forced herself to not linger on those thoughts.

Once she was sure that her clothes would not obstruct or end up hindering her movements in any way, she jumped.

The trunk shuddered under the impact, shaking loose a few leaves that dropped down on her. Mito shook them out of her face with a sleeve before swinging herself up, using chakra channelled to the palms of her hands to grab the branches one by one until she neared the top. 

Just past noon on a clear summer day like this, the sun poured from right overhead, white light turning everything it touched into a stark shade that threatened to sear the eyes. Even the grey stone and dull wood of the village spreading out before her seemed to be a badly-crafted genjutsu because the light had turned them too brilliant-bright for reality.

Somehow, the coat of the fox seated on haunches on the tip of the branch remained untouched. The orange fur had darkened instead into the colour of dawn or dusk, and the scant few shadows scattered upon its body – marking where the sunlight skittered away and dared not touch – seemed bruise-purple to her eyes.

“Kurama-sama,” Mito greeted. 

Without turning around, the fox snorted. One of his tails whipped the air close to her, creating a breeze that would have threatened to shatter her precarious balance on the branch if she wasn’t already used to his tricks. “You’re plenty persistent,” he rumbled. “Especially for a human.”

Mito stifled the smile. “You give me plenty of reason to be,” she said.

“Have I?”

“Yes,” she nodded, and took the fact that he was actually conversing with her this time as an invitation to sit down. “You still remain here, Kurama-sama, instead of returning to the Mountains’ Graveyard that is your sanctuary.” She paused. “Or is it that you don’t trust our word to leave you alone if you do decide to leave?”

“Of course I trust nothing you humans say,” Kurama snorted, ears pressing flat atop his head. “But why do I care if you decide to follow me? No matter the kinds of names you give yourselves, none of you will be able to stop me if I decide that you will make for a good snack.”

Mito wondered if Kurama truly believed in those words, or if they were part of his habitual arrogance to think himself above humans. She didn’t think he was as foolish to have already forgotten how he was controlled by the Sharingan of three Uchiha who were later easily eliminated by Hikaku. 

Had Kurama _truly_ not realised that Hashirama and Madara alone were enough to subdue him, much less what they were capable of inflicting upon him if they decided to work together? Had he truly remained ignorant how little of a chance he had to standing up against the seven of them – those two, herself, Tobirama, Izuna, Touka, and Hikaku – if they were truly determined to capture and force him to do their bidding?

Only time would tell what Kurama believed. She hoped that he wasn’t really that stupid. 

Now, she only murmured, “Of course. We are honoured by your decision to stay.”

“You are sickening,” Kurama said, tails swishing lightly in the air, “when you return to politeness out of having nothing else to say.”

“Yet you will be offended if I speak to you in any other way,” Mito pointed out. She would find it funny that the tactics that had worked so well on him at the start were now souring him towards her, except that she had already expected this to happen. In fact, she could practically predict his next words—

“Exactly,” Kurama said. “How can I tell your sincerity if you use the same tactics on everyone, whether they’re worth the effort of you using _keigo_ on them or not?”

He really couldn’t have handed a better opportunity on a silver platter if he was actually trying. Mito stifled another twitch of the lips.

She could tell him that she, and the other leaders of their village, owed him a debt that was nearly too great to be repaid. She could tell him that it was anathema to her very being for her to drop the honorific she used, especially since “-sama” seemed less fitting than absolutely necessary for a being of his age and power. 

(Tobirama might be comfortable enough with Matatabi to address her without any honorifics whatsoever, but Mito hadn't had the same exposure to the Uchiha that would allow her to accept such a thing.)

But telling him that wouldn’t accomplish her purposes. In fact, prioritising her own comforts right now would go against what she needed to do.

Mito lowered her head. “Very well then,” she said, allowing him to have a couple of moments of triumph before she jerked her gaze back up to hold his. “Now, _Kurama_, when will you stop dissimulating and give us an answer, any answer? We have been patient for two entire weeks_, _and time is fast running out.”

Kurama’s black eyes narrowed. “Have I become one of those unworthy of your courtesy?” he demanded like she knew he would.

“Only through your avoidance,” Mito said, folding her hands into her sleeves. “I would not dare to claim to know you well, Kurama-sama, but all that I have seen of you tells me that you are straightforward and quick-thinking. Therefore, the fact that you have yet to give an answer to our offer even while partaking in our hospitality means that you are _toying_ with us.” She paused deliberately. “Would you say yourself, Kurama-sama, that such a creature is worthy of my civility?” 

Unlike what she had expected, Kurama neither blew up nor started laughing. He only turned away from her, staring once more into the distance. In the direction of the Mountains’ Graveyard, Mito noted grimly.

“Tell me what you want with Matatabi and me again,” he said.

Mito nodded and made to stand. “I shall bring Tobirama here so he can—”

“Not him,” Kurama said, the words sharp enough to be a bark. “I want to hear it from _you_, Mito.”

Blinking, Mito looked at the great fox for a moment. Why would he want to hear from _her_, when she was neither the inspiration for nor the progenitor of the idea? Was it because – she suspected – if Kurama would tie himself to any human currently living in the village, it would be to _her_?

Whatever the reason, it didn’t change her response any: she nodded and settled back down on the branch. This time, however, she moved her body back enough that she could lean her back against the trunk, drawing one knee up to her chest and resting her elbow on top of it as she leaned forward. 

“Tobirama has invented a seal,” Mito started. “When it is placed on a person’s body, it automatically detects when a wound is received. It will then pull chakra from the other seal it is connected to in order to heal that wound instantaneously.” She paused, a frown starting to crease her brow as she tried to remember how Tobirama had worded his proposal. 

“If Matatabi and you agree to lend us your power, Kurama-sama,” she continued slowly, “it means that the shinobi of our village would no longer need to fear death that comes from a mission or a battle that is against their favour.” 

“That I understand perfectly,” Kurama said, his tails whipping through the air in a manner that seemed dismissive. “But you told me that this is a method to end wars as a whole.” His eyes fluttered shut, and his exhale seemed to weigh heavily in the air. “I don’t understand how giving more power to humans – whether it is your humans or not – will stop war.”

Mito cocked her head to the side, and did not speak.

Eventually, Kurama shook his head, long ears flapping lightly in the breeze that had just picked up. “The more powerful the humans, the likelier the war, and the worse the war that occurs,” he said. “And this seal of your brother-in-law… It will make your humans very powerful. Enough to try to conquer.”

Mito froze, staring at the fox for the long moment. “Have you seen many wars, Kurama-sama?” she asked carefully.

Kurama’s eyes slid to her, and he let out a soft chuckle that, to Mito’s surprise, contained neither malice nor derision. “You’re young, Mito, and born a woman,” he murmured. “However many battles you have seen, I have witnessed ten times as many wars.”

“I have seen a great number of battles,” Mito said, deliberately keeping her voice light. “If there have been so many wars, surely there wouldn’t be any humans left?”

Kurama snorted, tossing his head back and settling a little more on the branch. “All you humans do are fight and fuck, sometimes both at the same time,” he drawled. “And you breed even faster than rabbits,”

“Should I be insulted on the behalf of humans?” Mito asked. When Kurama only gave another snuffling snort in response, she tossed her head back and laughed. “But you do have a good point, Kurama-sama. Power begets destruction, and destruction begets death. Still, I believe that we headed down a very different path this time.”

“Why?” One of Kurama’s tails shifted in the air in a way that made Mito think of a raised eyebrow. “Because you do not intend to use this power to conquer, but instead to create peace in the world?” 

How strange it was, Mito thought, to hear peace spoken about in such a mocking way when she had only ever heard it breathed with reverence, as if it was an ideal that would take everything they had to try to achieve.

Still, she let out an undignified snort, because the rest of Kurama’s words were patently ridiculous. “Intentions mean very little, Kurama-sama,” she said, voice very dry, “especially among clans and countries instead of individual humans.” She lowered her knee until she was sitting cross-legged on the branch, keeping her eyes steady on Kurama. “No, it will be different because we won’t let it be anything else.”

“I see that you’re not bothering to refute my point about subjugation,” Kurama said.

“Why should I,” Mito cocked her head to the side, “when that is exactly the plan?”

Kurama sat up. “You talked about _peace_,” he said, voice lowering to a growl. “Now you’re telling me you’re planning to conquer every other country—”

“No,” she interrupted him, leaning forward with one hand raised. “I said nothing about _conquering_, Kurama-sama – we have our hands full enough with a single village and a single daimyo to deal with, much less trying to rule over all five Elemental Countries.” She stifled the laugh, but did not stop her lips from curving up into a sharp smirk. “The word you used, the word that I also think to be appropriate, is _subjugation_.”

“I do not,” Kurama’s eyes narrowed, “see the difference.”

“Peace is anathema to the existence of the shinobi,” Mito pointed out, “because shinobi are defined as weapons, and weapons are worthless without war.” Kurama didn’t move. But he didn’t say a word to refute her claim, either, so Mito nodded and continued, “Throughout the past centuries, the clans have always been pitting themselves against each other in terms of power: whoever has the greatest power, and is the most useful, gains the highest favours from the daimyo. They become, in other words, the daimyo’s favoured weapon.”

“So?” Kurama barked.

“Part of our village’s purpose is to give us independence so that we are no longer beholden to the daimyo,” Mito said, lifting a hand so she could tick her fingers off. “By grouping all of the clans together, we can claim a monopoly over our services: unless the Fire Daimyo wishes to hire from, say, the Land of Wind, he must hire _us_, and we control the kind of missions that we are sent upon.” 

Kurama gave a hurried nod. His patience was definitely running out.

Mito did not speak faster, instead keeping the same calm and even tone. “Tobirama’s seal essentially makes our village’s shinobi nigh unkillable, because wounds received will heal if they’re within range.” She ticked off another finger. “With your help and Matatabi’s help, that range will cover nearly the entire continent.” The third finger rose. 

“This means, Kurama-sama,” she met and held his gaze, “that our village’s shinobi becomes the most powerful throughout the _entire _continent. I even dare to say that we’ll be the most powerful in the whole world.”

“If that’s the case,” Kurama said slowly, “you will…”

“We choose our missions, and whatever missions that we reject, the Fire Daimyo cannot give to others outside the Land of Fire, because they will fear us too much to risk our wrath by performing missions that we have already rejected.” She placed her hand on the tips of three extended fingers, bending them back slightly. “If we refuse any and all missions that might result in the outbreak of war, if we are so powerful that no one will _dare_ go against us because they know that they have no chance of winning…”

“You are talking about peace,” Kurama said, ears flattening on top of his head, “through intimidation.”

“Power as the pathway towards peace,” Mito corrected, “through making war an utterly unpalatable option.”

Kurama’s eyes narrowed even further, turning them into nothing but black slits. “I do not see the difference between what I said and what you did.”

“Peace through intimidation suggests that we’re forcing the other clans and countries to do what we want,” Mito pointed out. “While our method uses subjugation to ensure that the other clans and countries _choose_ to not wage war.”

“Explain,” he demanded.

“Humans wage war when benefits of winning greatly outweighs the potential costs of war,” Mito spread out her arms. “No one quite knows when the feud between the Senju and the Uchiha started, but it continued because the clans stayed within the same territory; neither clan agreed or would ever agree to move away from the Naka River. In essence, the benefit of war boils down to keeping the right to use the river and all of the resources it provides, and a chance to try to win even _more _of those resource.”

Kurama nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I can see that.”

“If waging war with each other will end up with the river being drained or, worse, destroyed entirely,” Mito continued, “then the two clans would not do so, because whatever benefits that they might gain from fighting are now entire gone.”

“But that’s the issue, isn’t it?” Kurama cocked his head to the side. “If it is a third party threatening to drain the river, won’t the Senju and the Uchiha band together to destroy that party, and then return to fighting each other?”

Clever. Mito smiled. “That is where Tobirama’s seal comes into use,” she said. “If our shinobi are essentially unkillable, then the possibility of any retaliation actually working against us will be reduced to a near impossibility.” When she leaned forward this time, she placed her elbows on her knees. “In other words, they could choose to attack us, but there is little chance that such efforts will end with anything except the deaths of their own shinobi.” Her smile widened.

“Eventually, they will learn to stop.”

The fox didn’t speak for long moments, balancing on all four paws on top of the branch as he thought.

“It seems an unrelenting, cruel way to make peace,” he said finally. 

The crease between Mito’s brows deepened. How could peace, in any form, be cruel? Surely peace was for the benefit of all that it touched, no matter what form it came in? 

—No, she could see his meaning: she wasn’t exactly treating the other countries as humans with choices and opinions worth respecting, was she? She might have said that they would and could _choose _to not wage war, but given the position that her plan would put them in, they _didn’t _exactly have a choice.

But if she allowed them to choose, if any of them allowed the other clans in the Land of Fire or any of the other Elemental Countries to have a choice to wage war or not, then it was likely that peace would never settle into the world. Hence, if giving a choice would lead to war and not giving one would lead to peace, then surely acting like a tyrant would be for the greatest benefit of the world.

Especially since her experience told her that it was a rare lord who could give up his personal power for any reason, much less the power of and over the domain and people he ruled. To ask not only one, but many of them to acknowledge their powerlessness and accede to the wish of another would be nearly impossible without force. Even if that wish was one shared, such as peace.

“Perhaps,” Mito started, but could go no further because Kurama spoke suddenly.

“You’ve heard Matatabi talk about our father, haven’t you?”

When Mito looked at him, his head was tilted to the sky.

“Yes,” she said.

“Our father’s dearest wish was for peace,” Kurama said. His dark eyes seemed to search the wide blue expense for something that Mito would be hard-pressed to identify, much less figure out the answer to. “He wanted, more than anything, for the end of war. Not the kind of ceasefires and temporary truces that your humans are so fond of, either, but a true end.” Lids slipping to half-mast, he shook his head.

“He always said that, one day, humans will be able to find a way to connect with and understand each other. And when that day comes…” He sighed, tails drooping down to hang over the branch he was sitting on. “There will be peace.”

Mito tactfully bit back her instinctive response that that seemed to be a small child’s idea of peace instead of an old, powerful man like Kurama and Matatabi’s father surely had to be. She looked down at her hands and said, instead, “He sounds like a philosopher.”

“Perhaps he was,” Kurama said, shrugging. “I’ve never cared about the humans’ titles for him.”

So, Mito thought, not only was this man powerful enough to create or give birth to massive chakra constructs like Kurama, but he was also well-respected enough to be given _titles_ by those who had lived during his time. And his only way towards peace was through— connection? Mito couldn’t even understand what _that_ could mean!

“I am no philosopher, only a young woman,” she said, “and therefore I am limited in my thoughts in ways that your father was not. My method, too, is far cruder as well.”

“But it is one that could work,” Kurama said. He might not have lilted his last word into a question, but Mito could tell that it was one, nonetheless.

She shook her head. “I cannot make promises.” She was not as much a fool as to do so. “But I was born and raised in Uzushio, a country with great wealth and power, and which has never met war. And I am married to the Senju, a clan with enough power to amass wealth, and to stay strong even after centuries of war against one that is their equal. My understanding of war, and of humanity, is learned from both.”

“In other words,” Kurama said, sounding amused now, “you’ve made up a terribly cruel plan without any idea if it will truly bring peace, and you’re throwing both yourself and your brother-in-law into it as a gamble. And you want Matatabi and me to chain ourselves to it as well.”

“That,” Mito said, finally allowing her lips to quirk up slightly, “is a terribly cruel way to phrase the situation.”

“Only as much as you deserve,” Kurama retorted. “Have you forgotten that you’re asking a great deal from us for this gamble of yours that might not even succeed?”

“I understand,” Mito nodded, “but we have listened to you, too.” When he cocked his head, clearly curious, her smile widened.

“You mentioned that you will never agree to losing your freedom, much less to the extent of being trapped within a human’s body.” He huffed out air through his nose at the very idea, and Mito resisted the urge to laugh. “The original seal of the Uzumaki Clan is named the Four Symbols seal, and could be strengthened by repeating it, thus creating the Eight Trigrams seal.” His paws flattened on top of the branch, clearly growing impatient.

“I’ve finished modifying the seal,” she said, folding her hands on top of her lap. “My modification will allow you to manifest outside of the person you choose, and for you to roam wherever you like within a range of half a kilometre. You will not have the same freedom as what you currently enjoy, but, I promise, you will not be a prison.”

Kurama tilted his head up, eyes fixing upon the sky. “I really don’t care,” he drawled.

Mito blinked. 

“You said that was my concern, but I only said that to back Matatabi up when she mentioned it,” Kurama snorted, tails swiping from side to side in a way that reminded Mito of a dismissive wave of a hand. “No, Mito, what I’m worried is that this will extend beyond the two of us. We might agree – or, well, I might, because I know the idiot cat already did – but do you really think that the other countries won’t try to capture one of our other siblings?” His eyes narrowed. “Or did you not even think of that?”

“I did,” Mito said, which was entirely the truth. “Which is why there is another prong to our approach to peace.”

“Oh?”

“If they want the power that we have – which I’m sure that they do for I cannot imagine _any_ shinobi rejecting instantaneous healing – they will have to ask me for my modified seal.” She waited for Kurama’s nod. When she received it, her lips peeled back to show teeth. “And I will give it only to… what do you call yourselves again?”

“The humans used to call us ‘bijuu,’” Kurama said, shrugging slightly. “It’s a stupid name, but it serves well enough as a category.”

“‘Bijuu,’” Mito nodded. “I will not give it to humans, Kurama-sama. I will only give it to bijuu. To one of your siblings.”

Kurama blinked. “You mean…”

“If humans want the power that the bijuu will have them, they will have to ask nicely,” Mito said, grinning widely enough now that her cheeks, unused to this treatment, ached from it. “Then your siblings will have to talk to you or Matatabi-san. Only _then_ will the humans receive the seal.”

“You’re placing the amount of power a human might gain,” Kurama enunciated every word, “into our hands.” 

“Yes,” Mito said. “We need your power to enact this plan, Kurama-sama, and that power is and will always be yours.” She drew up a leg and dropped her chin on top of the knee. “The jutsu for instantaneous healing might be Tobirama’s, the plan might be mine, but the power is and has and will always belong to you, Matatabi, and whichever of your siblings who might wish to join us.”

When Kurama didn’t say a word, Mito lidded her eyes. “If we manage to end war, Kurama-sama,” she said, keeping her voice quiet but clear, “it will be by _your_ credit. Yours and Matatabi’s.” She cocked her head to the side. 

“Do you truly think,” she said, her voice dipping softer and smoothing into gentleness, “we will treat you as a weapon? When our entire desire for peace is so that we can _stop_ being weapons?” 

Kurama’s dark eyes fixed upon her for a long, silent moment. Then he let out a breath and turned his back on her, nine tails curling through the air before tucking around the branch as he returned to staring out into the distance.

“Let Matatabi take the leap of faith,” he said. “She’s foolish enough.”

“What of you, Kurama-sama?” Mito asked.

“I’ll see what happens to her before I decide,” Kurama said without turning. “And mark my words, Uzumaki Mito: if any of you have lied or behave in any way that goes against the promises you have made… all your seal would have done would be to allow me into your precious village to destroy it.”

Mito could tell him that such threats were terribly ineffective for getting his way; that if he truly wanted to ensure fairness, it wasn’t power he needed, but cunning.

“Of course, Kurama-sama,” she murmured instead.

The past couple of weeks had allowed her to understand all too well why Tamamo-no-Mae had been so sceptical of him: for one shaped like a fox, and one that was purportedly a thousand years old or even older, Kurama behaved nothing like a _kitsune_, much less a _tenko_.

“I will now take my leave,” she said, standing and bowing low. When Kurama still did not turn, Mito placed a hand on the trunk. “Please feel free to come into the village at any time. You will always be welcome.” 

Placing a hand on the trunk of the tree, she jumped back down to the ground, using chakra to break her fall as she rolled forward. Then, taking another glance backwards, she shook her head.

He really was far too honest and straightforward, so much so that she wondered if he would ever regret choosing _her_ instead of someone more suitable. Such as Touka.

She pushed the thoughts of Touka away quickly, and strode back to the village’s gates.

Nails clicked lightly against lacquered wood, tracing the edges of the rectangle bento box. Madara watched Tobirama’s head tilt slightly to the side, his other hand sliding across the surface of the laboratory table before he found the bamboo chopsticks that Madara had placed by his right hand. Quiet _clacks_ rang out as Tobirama used the chopsticks to draw a mental image of the bento box’s various sections, every motion following smoothly from the last.

“Did you ask Shiomi-san to use the same bento box as she did yesterday?” Tobirama asked, chopsticks hovering barely an inch above the section containing the rice.

“You overestimate our supplies if you think that we have other styles than this one,” Madara said, keeping an eye on Tobirama even as he unknotted the furoshiki covering his own bento.

“Perhaps,” Tobirama said, now pressing a fingertip against the edge of the lacquered wood. Madara felt a light pulse of chakra shiver in the air. “I suppose that you don’t usually prepare bento boxes?”

“The whole clan lived within a single compound,” Madara pointed out. “It’s rare for someone to not have the time to go home for meals. Those who don’t tend to be shinobi on long-term missions, and we usually pack hoshi-ii rations because bento just isn’t reasonable, no matter how many we can stack inside a sealing scroll.” Although, Madara thought, making a face to himself, the dried cooked rice tended to be absolutely disgusting after being re-boiled, no matter how high the quality the rice was before it was dried. 

“Do the Senju use bento?” He slid his gaze over to Tobirama.

“Mm,” Tobirama said, now using his chopsticks to tap at the various dishes that Shiomi had cooked and packed. “The wooden boxes keep heat better, and are easier to transport from the communal kitchens, than dishes on trays.” He paused for a long moment when the tip of his chopsticks rested on top of the yellowfish sashimi that was supposed to be his appetiser. “Did you tell Shiomi-san to give me more expensive food?”

“Like hell I have any control over her actions in the kitchen,” Madara snorted, tossing a piece of takuan into his mouth and crunching it. “She packed for you exactly what she thought you would like.” He set down his chopsticks and reached over to brush his fingers over Tobirama’s wrist, temporarily uncovered by his drawn-up sleeve. “Not what you think you deserve to eat.”

“But—” Tobirama said. His chin tilted down so much that it nearly smacked against his chest. “Would you tell me what Shiomi-san has packed, Madara?”

No matter how good his chakra sense, Tobirama wouldn’t be able to tell what was in front of him unless he was told. “Of course,” Madara said, and reached out to take Tobirama’s hand into his own.

“The rice is still here,” Madara said, helping Tobirama shift his chopsticks that particular section. “The tsukemono for the day are takuan,” he helped Tobirama tap the tips of the chopsticks to the pieces of brilliant-yellow pickled radish, “and shibazuke,” now to the even-tinier bits of cucumber and eggplant fermented in shiso-infused brine for nearly a year. “Right above the rice is trout fried with red miso,” he led Tobirama’s chopsticks to that section. “The bones have already been removed, so you don’t have to worry about those.”

“She shouldn’t have to,” Tobirama murmured.

“Try telling her to stop,” Madara snorted, amused despite himself. “She does it for me, too. Sometimes I think she still sees me as a very small child.” Tobirama’s shoulders shook lightly, and Madara smiled before he brushed his lips lightly over his jaw.

“Alright,” he said. “To the left of the trout are two pieces of fried tofu drizzled with a mix of dashi and soy sauce.” He waited until Tobirama had tapped the tofu, figuring out their sizes and dimensions and adding them to the mental map in his mind, before he moved to the next section. “To the left of the tofu is a piece of tamagoyaki,” he said, carefully guiding Tobirama’s chopsticks so the tips didn’t stick into the rolled egg. 

“And below the tamagoyaki, to the left of the rice,” Madara continued, “are four pieces of yellowtail sashimi.” When Tobirama opened his mouth, clearly to protest, Madara tugged his hand down until the chopsticks clacked lightly against the smallest section of the box. “The soy sauce and wasabi for the sashimi is here.”

  
by [drelfina](https://drelfina.dreamwidth.org/2020/04/12/2020-04-12-a-symbol-of-subjugation-a-fanart.html).

A frown was already creasing Tobirama’s brow. “This is surely too much,” he said.

Jumping down from his seat, Madara walked over. Tobirama didn’t move when Madara wrapped his arms around him, and he let out a long, shuddering exhale at the kiss Madara pressed against his temple.

“All of the effort you have made and are still making to remain competent despite your loss counts,” Madara murmured, lightly nuzzling the back of one ear. “Even if you haven’t entirely figured out a way to heal Touka, the fact that you are making progress in your work is worth a great deal already.”

The black blindfold Tobirama had taken to wearing made it impossible to see when he had closed his eyes, but Madara no longer need sight to tell: he could feel it in the loosening of the tension in Tobirama’s shoulders, the way his beloved concubine leaned a little further back against him, and even in how his chopsticks fell from his hand and he didn’t flinch at the clatter they made against the wooden surface of the laboratory bench.

“You spoil me,” Tobirama whispered, shaking his head lightly. “All of you do.”

“It’s not spoiling when we give you what you deserve,” Madara refuted. He pressed another kiss, firm and lingering, on Tobirama’s temple, to forestall any more protests. “Eat. Unless you want me to be scolded by Shiomi for not taking care of you properly?”

“I am far too old to need such constant minding,” Tobirama protested, but obediently picked up his chopsticks again. “I’m starting to feel insulted that all of you seem to show such distrust towards me.”

Tossing his head back, Madara laughed. “Once you start remembering to eat and sleep without me having to nag you into doing it, you have the full right to feel insulted,” he promised. When Tobirama’s lips twisted into an expression that – Madara supposed – was meant to be a frown, he couldn’t help but turn his head to capture that pouting mouth with his own.

Tobirama kissed him back almost immediately, spine arching under Madara’s hand as he pressed their chests together. Madara cupped a cheek with a hand, tracing the edge of the blindfold’s rough cotton before sliding downwards to following the stark red marking that led to the jaw. 

“Weren’t you trying to get me to eat?” Tobirama asked, words slightly crushed against Madara’s own jaw.

“Mm,” Madara nodded. “I’m tempted to feed you now, because then you can eat without me having to let go of you.”

For some reason, that made Tobirama laugh, the sound rumbling deep inside his chest with enough strength to reverberate in Madara’s own. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, digging his elbow into Madara’s ribs. “You’ll have to eat, too, or we’ll _both_ be scolded by Shiomi-san.”

“Maybe I should learn to wield chopsticks with my left hand,” Madara grinned. He kissed Tobirama’s nape lightly before peeling himself away to return to his own seat. “Then I can feed you and myself at the same time.”

Tobirama tilted his head up, clearly rolling his eyes even though Madara couldn’t exactly see him doing it. The tips of his chopsticks slid around the edges of the bento box again, clearly reminding himself of the map Madara had drawn for him, before he found the yellowtail and lifted a piece. As Madara watched, Tobirama dipped it lightly into the soy sauce and brought it into his mouth.

It would be easier for him to eat, Madara thought, if Shiomi had mixed everything together and put it into a covered bowl for Tobirama to scoop up with a spoon. But doing that would not only disparage Tobirama by implying that he had become incapable of using chopsticks, it would also be an insult to Shiomi’s cooking. Mixing up all of the disparate flavours and textures that way would simply destroy the effort she had put into making each one of them.

Madara couldn’t imagine how chopped up pieces of sashimi would taste when mixed with cooked fish, much less everything mushed up together with pickles that would overpower the taste of everything else. He made a face just imagining it.

Perhaps Tobirama would have to eat from bento boxes for the rest of his life. Perhaps he would have to rely on Madara, or anyone else on the rare occasions when Madara wasn’t there, to tell him what his food was before he could begin eating, which meant that he likely couldn’t eat on his own anymore. Madara stared at his own bento, and forced himself to start eating so his mind wouldn’t continue down that train of thought.

“I should apologise to Shiomi-san,” Tobirama said suddenly.

Blinking, Madara turned, a piece of yellowtail hanging from his own chopsticks. He carefully placed it back down. “Why?” 

“Proper appreciation of food involves the admiration of its presentation,” Tobirama said. His throat bobbed as he swallowed the last piece of yellowtail, a droplet of soy sauce hovering at the corner of his mouth before he swiped it away from his chopsticks. “The bento box with the five colours in harmony is now entirely lost on me.”

“Have you ever been able to appreciate it?” Madara asked, keeping his gaze on Tobirama even as he sneaked his last two pieces of sashimi into his beloved concubine’s box.

“Of course,” Tobirama said. He tapped his chopsticks against Madara’s, lips thinning a line for a moment before he sighed and, to Madara’s triumphant pleasure, picked up one piece to dip into the soy sauce. “I might not be able to see everything clearly, but colours, even blurred, had an aesthetic value I used to enjoy.” He tilted his head to the side. “Were you not able to see colours when your own eyes were deteriorating?”

“Oh, I could see them just fine,” Madara said, scooping up some rice with a piece of takuan and popping it into his mouth. “I’ve just never taken the time to actually take _notice_.” He had known about the theory of the harmony of colours in food, of course, because it was one of those things that Mom had liked to tell him and his brothers when they were eating together, but it had never seemed particularly relevant or important. 

“So,” he continued, “it’s very unlikely that Shiomi would get angry at you for not admiring her presentation, because I never have.”

“How terribly rude,” Tobirama said, and smiled out of the corner of his mouth when Madara barked a laugh.

Still, Madara couldn’t help but look at the black blindfold again. He knew that Tobirama’s eyes were lost – when they had finally managed to reach the village and finished freaking out about Touka and Hikaku’s injuries, Hashirama had checked Tobirama’s eyes and confirmed that they could not be healed. But he couldn’t help but wonder…

There was a seal that he and Mito had made that allowed him to augment his sight with his chakra sense. It was likely that he would never need to use it again – not with the Rinnegan that he now owned and which he still had no idea why he had – but the theory behind the seal might be useful. If there was a way in which Madara could modify that seal so that chakra sense could be used to _replace_ sight…

Well, Tobirama still wouldn’t be able to see colours. But it would let him _see_, and wasn’t that enough of a boon to be worth the effort?

Madara swallowed down the words with his next bite of fish and rice. There was no point in telling Tobirama about this now. Not when it might raise his hopes or, worse still, make him think that he was obliged to help Madara with his research when he already had so much on his plate.

Speaking of that…

“How is your research going?” Madara asked, and almost immediately regretted doing so because Tobirama shovelled a whole heap of rice and fish and pickles into his mouth and swallowed so quickly that Madara was genuinely afraid that he would choke.

“The block with the Kage Bunshin is still unresolved,” Tobirama said, and took the cup of tea that Madara had hurriedly poured from the portable kettle he had set boiling in the corner. “I should have finished with it by now, or at least proceeded to the next step, but…” His fingers wrapped around the wooden cup, and he shook his head.

Ah, right: the _other_ seal that Madara was now working on; the one that would allow Tobirama to read. Mito had said that there weren’t many precedents for something of that sort, and the paucity of Madara’s current theoretical knowledge made it impossible for him to quickly figure out a way to create what he needed.

“Would it help,” he said carefully, “if I asked someone to read your notes out for you?”

Tobirama’s head dipped down for long moment before he shook it. “That is not the issue,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Previously, I used to consolidate my notes by rewriting and reorganising them in various ways so that I could view the data from various perspectives. But now…” White teeth flashed as he bit his lip. “I cannot do so.” 

Madara wanted to tell him that he would soon be able to do it again; that Madara would throw everything he had and focus all of his time on finding ways that would allow Tobirama to work and live as he usually had.

But— not yet. Not until he had something concrete to show for all of his hopes. He would not be so terribly cruel to Tobirama, or to himself if – as he suspected – Tobirama rejected his efforts because he didn’t think himself worthy of them.

He let out a long breath instead, and changed the subject: “But the modifications you’re making to the regeneration seal are working.”

“They are,” Tobirama nodded immediately. “I still have a few tests to do before I would attempt to use it on Touka-nee, and an entire battery’s worth of them before I would allow it to be used on Hikaku-san. But we’re progressing according to schedule.”

Part of Madara wanted to be glad that Tobirama was now taking precautions and experimenting on animals before he attempted his untested seal on humans. But the other part was worried, because—

“If I had finished this earlier instead of dividing my time between this and the Kage Bushin,” Tobirama said, turning away from Madara to face a blank spot on the laboratory’s walls, “then perhaps Touka-nee and Hikaku-san would not be as they are now.”

Madara opened his mouth. But before he could say a word, a different voice snorted: “That’s bullshit.” He turned his head.

Matatabi had made herself into the size of a housecat and had curled within one of the mokuton-made shelves in the corner of the laboratory. Madara had noticed her presence when he had first entered the laboratory, of course, but she had napped in that unobtrusive corner the whole time, and so he had taken that as a hint to ignore her presence entirely. 

Now, as Madara watched, she dropped her head back and let a yawn huge enough to show off both rows of her gleaming white teeth. “There would have been no point in you finishing this seal of yours earlier, Tobirama,” she said, voice slightly slurred even as she leaped from the shelf onto the ground. “Because you can’t use it without me.”

“That might be so,” Tobirama inclined his head, “but—”

“But nothing,” Matatabi snapped, tone sharp. “For a particularly clever specimen of your species, Tobirama, you are irritatingly prone to the tendency of wondering about what-ifs, which is pure human folly.”

“Have care about how you speak, Matatabi,” Madara said, keeping his voice low but nevertheless thrumming with warning. “Just because Tobirama is fond of you does not mean that you can insult him like this.”

Mismatched eyes turned to him, narrowing immediately. “Are you trying to school me, young Uchiha?” she drawled, fire-fur flaring hot enough for Madara to feel the temperature of the room rise.

“Only a reminder,” Madara replied.

“I did not laugh when your little brother named you a god, young Uchiha, only because Kurama is foolish and stubborn enough to need such titles before he would listen,” Matatabi said, seeming to glide across the tiled floor towards Madara. “But it seems that you have taken those words to heart, and have become arrogant from them.”

Madara snorted despite himself. “I have always been this arrogant,” he said, tipping his chin up so he could stare _down_ at her. “And my respect for you, Matatabi, does not mean that I will allow you to speak as you like to Tobirama.”

“Why should I gentle my words?” Matatabi challenged, eyes narrowing. “He is a human, and by your human terms, he is but a concubine. According to _your_ human rules, I can speak however I like to him. Any human can, in fact, much less one such as me.”

“Have you forgotten that Izuna did not name only me a god,” Madara raised an eyebrow, “but Tobirama as well?”

Matatabi opened her mouth. But before she could say a word, Tobirama’s voice cut in between the two of them: “I did not realise that I have become a toy to be fought over by two cats.” His tone was very dry, and he held up a hand when Madara whirled towards him. “Enough, Madara. I know that you are insulted for my sake, but there is no need.”

“You would let her speak like this to you when you—” Madara started.

“I will have her speak to me without need to shield or obscure her opinions,” Tobirama spoke over him ruthlessly, “because we will be joined, and such formalities would only form a barrier between us.” He tapped the back of his chopsticks lightly on the bench in front of him. “Which I would really rather not occur.”

Tossing her head back, Matatabi let out a noise that was very much like a cackle. “With one like you spoiling him,” she sniped, “while the others seemed to step on tiptoes around him… Who else but me dares to tell him exactly what he needs to hear?”

“How,” Madara’s eyes narrowed, “is reproaching him in any way necessary?”

“Well,” Tobirama said, tossing the rolled egg into his mouth, “it gets me back to working faster.” 

“Hn,” Madara crossed his arms.

Jumping up, Matatabi landed right in front of Madara’s bento box. She met his gaze and held it. “Eat your food, Uchiha with eyes like my father,” one of her tails flicked sharply to the side, “before I steal the fish straight from your chopsticks.”

“If you’re actually hungry,” Madara shot back, deliberately shoving nearly a quarter of his salmon fillet into his mouth, “you should’ve told me so I could pack an extra bento box for you.”

“I genuinely do not understand,” Tobirama said, head cocked in their direction, “if the two of you despise each other or if you like each other.”

Chewing on a mouthful of rice, Madara didn’t reply. He split his remaining salmon into two and nudged half of it in Matatabi’s direction. When she sniffed and turned her head up, he rolled his eyes and picked it up with his chopsticks, shaking it lightly in her face.

She closed her fangs around it, and refused to let go when Madara tried to pull his chopsticks back. Her mismatched eyes stared at him in clear challenge, and he rolled his own before he flicked her on the forehead, making her yowl and roll away.

“Great,” Madara heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Now my chopsticks are full of cat drool.” He flapped them in her direction, and she rolled onto her side and promptly ignored him.

“Am I to assume that this is yet another thing that I will not understand?” Tobirama said. Given how he had splayed his hand on the bench and the faint traces of his chakra Madara could feel in the air, it was clear that he had ‘seen’ everything that was going on.

Wiping his chopsticks off on his sleeve, Madara returned to finishing his food. “Using words to describe it will give it far too much dignity,” he sniffed theatrically, and let his lips quirk into a smirk when Tobirama huffed out a soft chuckle. When Matatabi slid her eyes towards him, he could see his own smugness mirrored in her eyes.

No, he wouldn’t exactly say that he liked her, but they had an understanding. He wondered if this was the effect that Tobirama had on the people who met and had the fortune to push aside his unintentional façade of cold cruelty to see the person beneath.

At that thought, he leaned over and brushed his lips against Tobirama’s cheek. Just because he could.

“Madara?” Tobirama cocked his head slightly to the side. 

Running his thumb over the line where black cotton met skin, Madara mentally swore once more that he _would_ find a way for Tobirama to see and read and write again. But now… Now, he shook his head, brushing a few strands of white hair away from the blindfold. “Nothing,” he said. “Just wanted to touch you, that’s all.”

Matatabi snorted. He ignored her in favour of staring at the way Tobirama’s shy smile had changed to his eyes: without being able to see the ways the corners of his eyes creased, Madara could only focus on how the dull-dark cloth set off the faintest hint of a flush that tinted Tobirama’s pale skin, and how those lips seemed even fuller when Tobirama curved them up like this.

He leaned in and kissed them again. Tobirama made a tiny noise at the base of his throat, as if embarrassed, but practically melted when Madara slid a hand over the nape of his neck and sent a pulse of chakra into the tenketsu point there.

“If you’re done with your human mating rituals,” Matatabi intoned lazily from the table, “my brother’s favoured human is making her way here.”

Madara hadn’t been surprised in the slightest when the chakra beast in the shape of a fox had taken a liking to Mito: it was only right, for she was practically a fox herself. Still, this meant that they had to finish their food quickly, because there was only one reason why Mito would approach Tobirama’s lab, especially today.

“Aneue is early,” Tobirama said, settling back in his chair after Madara had pulled away from him. “We should—”

“There’s a question I must still ask Matatabi,” Madara interrupted, placing a hand on Tobirama’s even as he hopped back onto his seat. 

“I figured,” Matatabi said. “And I have to remind you again that I care nothing for what you humans consider etiquette, Tobirama. Eat while we talk.”

“Alright,” Tobirama said, nose scrunching up slightly. No doubt, Madara thought, because he couldn’t quite get used to foregoing his manners even when given permission. Madara checked that he was eating and that he had almost finished his salmon before he turned back to the chakra beast in the shape of a housecat. 

“Why are you doing this?” He tried to keep his tone soft enough for his words to be a request instead of a demand, and wasn’t sure how well he succeeded.  
.  
“You have to be clearer than that,” Matatabi said, and yawned to show off her teeth again.

Madara rolled his eyes. “Mito is here with a seal that she and Tobirama had perfected,” he reminded. “One that would chain you to Tobirama to an extent that you cannot go beyond five hundred metres of where he is.” He paused to shovel more food into his own mouth, and then continued, “That’s quite a loss for someone used to roaming the lands by her own will.”

“Haven’t I already said?” Matatabi flopped to lie onto her side, blue eye open and staring at Madara. “I will do it because it means that war will end.”

“The wars between humans have nothing to do with you,” Madara pointed out. He gulped down his tea. “You could’ve easily walked away after Hashirama and I destroyed Yamagakure. But you followed us here because of Tobirama.”

“Because he said that he could end war permanently,” Matatabi said. “Would you not have followed him if he told you that?”

“I would, but that is because war affects me directly,” Madara said. He paused to gulp down some tea. “Given that there are no records and scant few rumours about you and your siblings’ existence throughout the centuries, you have never once interfered with the wars between humans. In fact,” he barely resisted the urge to use his chopsticks to point at her, “I daresay that it is not a concern of yours.” 

“It is, because a world in perpetual peace was my father’s dream,” Matatabi said. The tension running through her body belied her indolent tone. “And I am a dutiful daughter.” 

“That,” Madara punctuated the word with a tap of his chopsticks on lacquered wood, “still does not explain why you have chosen to do this here and now.”

Matatabi stared at him for a long moment before she stretched, paws straining away from each other, and leapt back to her feet. She kept her gaze deliberately averted from Madara as she jumped onto Tobirama’s shoulder, becoming even smaller until she was tucked into the juncture between his neck and shoulder.

Tobirama let out a breath that seemed to echo in the room. “When we first met,” he said, head tilted to nuzzle his cheek against Matatabi’s, “I promised that I would die rather create a seal that will trap you. Later, I went back on my words when I proposed this idea to you, and not only did you agree, you never once called me out on going back on my promise.” 

The light _clack_ of his chopsticks upon the top of his bento box was a very soft, yet very empathic, punctuation point. 

“Are my intentions really so important?” Matatabi asked, eyes closed and face practically buried in Tobirama’s neck. Madara had a brief moment of wondering thought about how Tobirama could withstand the smell of sulphur that constantly wafted from her so close, and then realised the answer to the question was easily found:

He could barely smell it anymore, himself.

Then pale fingers rose, pulling his attention back to Tobirama in time to watch them sink into shimmering blue-black fur. “Only because they hint towards a grief that you refuse to tell us,” he said. “One that we will ease from your shoulders, if you allow us to do so.”

For long moments, Matatabi didn’t say a word, and the only sounds in the room were the quiet taps of chopsticks and the even subtler noises of chewing.

“I do not understand why you are asking,” Matatabi said finally, “when I have already told you how long I have spent with only the hatred of humans as my only impression of them.” Her two tails curled around Tobirama’s biceps. 

It should not be an answer, but Madara understood immediately. He had observed once that Matatabi seemed attracted to a world where humans would look her in the eye and speak to her as if she was one of them instead of a monster. At that time, he had thought that she wanted acknowledgment; that, like Hashirama, she had thought that such abuse was all that humans were capable of until Tobirama had showed her differently.

Now, she had given him enough hints to realise that being seen to be as full of thoughts and emotions as humans had only been part of her desires, not the whole of them. Matatabi had agreed, had decided to give up her freedom to leap straight into a strange situation that would take away her liberty for a very simple reason:

She was lonely, and she had been for a very long time. Madara closed his eyes, and let out a long breath.

Whatever her power, whatever her abilities, Madara knew that he would never be able to see her as a monster ever again. Not when she suffered from loneliness in much the same ways as humans did.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “For answering.”

When Matatabi replied, it was not in words: only in the tightening of her tails around Tobirama’s biceps, and the loosening of the tension in her body when Madara ran a tentative hand down her back. When he started scratching her between her ears, she nuzzled his wrist in response. He smiled.

They stayed there for a few moments. Madara would have gladly linger within this quiet peace if not for the sudden knocks, three in rapid succession, that rang out in the room.

Setting down his chopsticks, Tobirama turned towards the sound. “Madara,” he said.

Lifting his hand from Matatabi, Madara started to close and stack up the bento boxes. “That should be Mito,” he started.

“That’s not what I am going to say,” Tobirama shook his head. There was a very faint smile on his lips as he continued, “What do you think about ‘Konohana’ as a name for the village?”

“Konohana?” Madara blinked.

“Yes,” Tobirama said, jumping off his seat. His hand stroked down Matatabi’s back as he continued, “After the goddess of volcanoes, Konohanasakuya-hime.”

Ah.

“Kurama will not be pleased,” Madara said, voice very dry. He hadn’t forgotten how Matatabi and her brother had attacked each other the moment they had met; he didn’t want to imagine how Kurama would react if he knew that the village would be named after his sister, especially if he also agreed to take part in Tobirama’s proposal to cause the permanent end of war.

_If_ he agreed. At this point, not even Mito could be entirely sure what the fox’s decision would be.

(A part of him, far too used to war, considered the possibility of forcing the fox to bend to them and be chained to Mito. But Madara dismissed those thoughts the moment they came to his mind: he knew far too well just how difficult it was to ensure obedience of those whose loyalties had been force-fed instead of properly chosen.

The last thing the village needed was a massive fox on a rampage fuelled by his rage of being made a prisoner.

No. If Kurama joined them, it would be by his own choice.) 

Knotting the furoshiki cloth around the empty bento boxes and chopsticks, he shoved the bundle to a corner of the laboratory bench. “‘Konoha’ might be a better name,” he said, watching Tobirama out of the corner of his eye. “Then we can tell him, and everyone else, that the village is named for the forests that surround us.”

“Konoha,” Tobirama repeated, seemingly testing out the word on his time. “It seems to be missing a little something.”

“Mm,” Madara nodded. “But it is a good suggestion.” His lips quirked up, and he let his chakra spike up correspondingly. “Especially since we haven’t had many.”

Ducking his head, Tobirama chuckled. Madara took the chance to press yet another kiss against his temple before he hooked Tobirama’s arm over his own elbow, and started leading him to the door. It wasn’t necessary for him to do so, of course – Tobirama had memorised the layout of the laboratory the very day that Hashirama had built it for him with mokuton – but he took every excuse he had to touch his beloved concubine, and Tobirama indulged him.

“I find it unfair,” Tobirama said the moment Madara pulled the door open. Mito, standing on the other side, cocked her head to the side in silent question.

“Aneue’s seal is entirely untested,” Tobirama continued, “and I will be its first subject. But you’re not fussing about her having to test it.”

Madara could argue that Mito was one of Uzushio’s foremost experts on sealing theory, with an entire head of knowledge backed up by information and experiments done by Uzumaki seal-masters throughout history. He could also draw attention to the fact that she had checked over the seal several times, _and_ had ensured that, even if it failed, no harm would come to the subject.

But that would actually be taking Tobirama’s comment a little too seriously, especially since he knew that the younger man was making a joke. So, he bit his lip instead and said, “I can fuss if you want.”

“No, thank you,” Tobirama said, arm brushing against Madara’s as he leaned in slightly. “And that’s not my point.”

“What is your point?” Madara asked, already knowing where this was going.

“You and Anija have forbidden me entirely from using untested seals on myself, but Aneue’s seals can be used without an issue.” His lips twitched very slightly. “I find that unfair.”

“Mito?” Madara turned to her. “What do you have to say in your defence?”

“I will gladly test out this seal, Tobirama,” Mito said, unfolding her hands from her sleeves as she walked down the steps in tandem with them, “if you can find me experimental subjects. Perhaps Matatabi knows other wandering bijuus in the area who might be amenable?”

A yellow eye cracked open. “Keep me out of your idiocies before I change my mind,” Matatabi said, and immediately returned to pretending to sleep.

Tobirama tossed his head back. The laughter that burst out of him was loud enough to echo in the clearing that surrounded his laboratory, and Madara could feel his chakra, always cool, warm even further. It made him want to kiss him.

He hurriedly turned his thoughts back to names. The name of the village wasn’t the only one they had to discuss, he realised, because they would need a name for what Tobirama and Mito would become once they were linked to the bijuu by Mito’s seal.

The image of Tobirama dressed entirely in white silk flashed across his mind. 

_Hitobashira _seemed entirely too appropriate: Tobirama and Mito would have to spend their lives connected to the bijuu. They would be sacrificing their privacy and complete ownership of their own bodies in order to become pillars that the village would depend upon for their lives; that the world would depend upon for peace and the extinction of war.

No, Madara decided. _Hitobashira_ was a word too solidly-rooted to its original meaning to carry any others, especially one that was so new.

But if he used the onyomi reading of the same kanji instead of the kunyomi, then… _Jinchuu_.

That still didn’t sound right. He shelved it away to think about for another time. Or, better yet, talk to Mito about it.

After they had finished placing the seal, of course.

Glancing back at his beloved concubine, he reached out and brushed the knuckles of his free hand over Tobirama’s cheek. When Tobirama tilted his head to the side, immediately and instinctively leaning towards the touch, Madara let out a long, low breath.

There was so much happening, and there was still so much to do that his head was constantly filled with ideas. But in moments like these when he had the chance to watch Tobirama, to simply bask in his presence and warmth beside him after long months of separation… moments like these when he was reminded that now he could simply go to Tobirama whenever he missed him instead of having to wait…

He was almost content.

Almost, because Tobirama wasn’t yet.

Madara really had to pick up sealing theory faster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /sings my usual ‘every detail is significant’ song. I know some of you got very angry at me when Tobirama first went permanently blind, because it seems like unnecessary whump. It had never been unnecessary from the start, and I’m adding even more layers now. 
> 
> (I would say that I don’t write whump, but at point, I’m not actually sure if this fic, or parts of this fic, can constitute as ‘whump’ or even ‘angst.’ How do I classify my own writing into genres again? I have no idea.)
> 
> Also, yes, ‘hitobashira’ is actually the same kanji as ‘jinchuu’ of ‘jinchuuriki.’ This was not entirely intentional: I found the kanji for ‘jinchuuriki’ _way_ after I put Tobirama into the outfit of a hitobashira, but it’s way too good a link to pass up.
> 
> This third arc is a lot shorter than the second, and shorter than the first as well. The fic _will_ end at Chapter 30, goddammit.


	24. to be glad for every heartbeat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** Extremely cavalier attitudes towards one’s own death that’s not suicidal ideation. I’m not sure how else to this chapter except: “Touka is a Senju and it shows.” If you have forgotten what that means, please reread Chapter 12.

The first thing Touka became aware of was how shitty her mouth tasted. It was as if an army of rats had died in there.

Which didn’t make any sense, because the last thing she remembered was the sight of a fire-bright tail aiming straight for her chest. There hadn’t been time for the sinking feeling that she was going to die, though there had definitely been a moment when clichés came true and she saw her life flash before her eyes, and she had felt a smidgeon of regret about not being able to see the completed village, especially after all the work that had been put into it.

Only the very faintest hint of regret, however; she had always expected – _wanted_ – to die in battle. The alternative, after all, was to grow old and be shoved back into the same boxes that women, Senju or not, had always been trapped in. And she had harboured a rather foolish hope that, if she lived and died in battle for the sake of her clan – or her village, it didn’t matter which – then her life could be used to carve a path for other women to do the same. 

In other words, she should be dead, but the aches of her body, especially in the vicinity of the chest that she _knew_ had been impaled, and the dry scratchiness of her throat, made it extremely clear that she was still alive.

Gods above and within the mortal realm, what had Tobirama done this time?

Wait, that couldn’t be right: Tobirama hadn’t even been there when Touka had been injured. Though she wouldn’t put it past her little cousin to reject something as fundamental as _death_ even when he wasn’t in the area, it seemed that she had better candidates to blame for her current state.

“-ka-san, Touka-san—”

“Open your eyes already, Touka, why are you being such a lazy-ass—”

Though it galled her to be in any way obedient to an Uchiha’s wishes, especially _this _particularly annoying specimen of Uchiha, Touka cracked an eye open. She caught a glimpse of two pale blobs surrounded by dark hair before she had to squeeze it shut again, because there was far too much _sunlight_. Her head was throbbing something fierce, and the feel of something dead on her tongue had grown even stronger.

Letting out a long breath through her teeth, she tried to move her arm so she could signal for some water. For some reason – _the hole that should be in your chest_, a voice sounding annoyingly like Hashirama piped up in the back of her head – she could barely twitch a single finger. In fact, she couldn’t even be sure if that finger had moved or if it was just her imagination.

But there was suddenly an arm winding around her shoulders. It felt somewhat familiar, but her mind was still too fuzzy for her to recognise to whom it belonged. She only knew that the hand placing something cool – the rim of a cup? – against her lips was someone else entirely.

Water slid down her throat, cool and soothing, and Touka tried to not gulp it down too quickly as the pain started to subside. Then she jerked her head to the side, hissing out a breath as the sudden chill smacked straight into her chest, worsening the throbbing ache there. The cup – it had to be a cup – tried to chase her mouth, but she shook her head, hand trembling on top of the futon – it felt like one, at least – as she tried to raise it to press against her chest.

Then the pain vanished. There was another hand there, Touka realised belatedly, long fingers she definitely knew, and a sudden chill spread from where the fingertips touched her skin. Touka’s head dropped back despite herself, harsh pants ringing in her own ears as the pain slowly, very slowly, started to abate.

“It’ll take a few days or even weeks more before her body gets used to the new heart.” That was _definitely_ her little cousin’s voice. “But her life is no longer in danger.”

What the hell was he talking about? A new _heart_? How was that even possible? Everyone knew that being stabbed in the heart meant instantaneous death; she had been taught to always aim for that spot, after all, and even Hashirama took precautious with the armour he wore, mostly to protect his heart and lungs—

Her thoughts were interrupted when the cup pressed against her lips again. She turned away from it, lips parting to try to speak, but then two fingers – someone _else_ again; just how many people were in this damned room with her? – gripped her by the chin, jerked her head up, and poured the water down her throat.

Instinctively, she tried to resist. But the arm around her shoulders was now bracing her against a somewhat-broad chest, and the fingers gripping her head were very strong. Or was it that she was now so weak that it was impossible for her to fight against even the limpest of grips? She tried to focus on that so she wouldn’t be tempted to throw a fit over being force-fed water until droplets were splattering all over her chest and dripping from her chin.

Eventually, the cup disappeared again. Touka flicked her tongue out, licking her lips—

“You’re a fucking bastard, Hashirama,” she rasped out.

A bright peal of extremely familiar and even more irritating laughter rang out. “I should’ve figured that you would know it’s me even without your eyes open,” Hashirama said. “That means I shouldn’t need to help you open them, right?”

Tipping her head up, Touka let out a long sigh. “It’s too damned bright,” she grumbled. “And let go of me, Mito, unless you actually want an elbow to the face.”

“Right now,” Mito’s voice rang out right beside her ear, “I’d be very glad to have your elbow in my face.”

“Not sure if you can manage that, though,” Hashirama chirped. “It seems that you find even breathing difficult right now.” 

With great effort, Touka lifted her hand. Then, slowly, she folded every single finger down except for the middle one, and held it in Hashirama’s direction. Her cousin and clan head cackled in response, so she held that hand right where it was until she could feel herself start to tremble.

When she dropped her hand, a hollow echo rang out. She cracked opened one eye for an inch, making sure to tilt her chin dowards, and realised that she _was _lying on a futon, but the futon was laid on top of a large rectangle platform that was clearly mokuton-made. 

“Uh, this might be a little radical,” Izuna’s voice seemed to come from right beside her, distracting her once again from figuring out her surroundings, “but maybe pissing Touka off when she has just come out of a coma is a not such a good idea.”

“Why, are you getting overprotective over her now?” What the hell was _Uchiha Madara_ doing here, in what she supposed was her bed in the medics’ quarters? “I think she might get even more pissed about that, Izuna.”

“What I’m fucking pissed about,” Touka forced the words out through gritted teeth, “is, one, you’re talking about me as if I’m not here and wide awake, and two, why the fuck are there so many people in here? Don’t you all know to not fucking crowd patients? You’re stealing all of my air.” 

“Should I not announce my presence, then?” Hikaku asked, and had the gall to sound amused.

“I already know you’re here,” Touka said. If not for the fact that her throat still hurt, she would’ve snorted. “You were being pretty damn loud just now.”

“Forgive me for being worried about you, Touka-san,” Hikaku said.

Though she had vowed to protect Madara for Hikaku’s sake despite not even liking the man, Touka wasn’t as arrogant as to say that she knew Hikaku, much less that she knew him _well_. But the odd note in his voice was obvious enough that she couldn’t help but crack an eye open just to figure out what was wrong with him.

Still too damned bright. Touka didn’t bother to lift her hand to shield her eyes – it still felt too heavy, especially after she had let it slump back down to the side – instead lidding them.

Nothing but blurs of colour came into view. Briefly, Touka wondered if this was what Tobirama always saw whenever he opened his eyes; if he had never been able to distinguish the differences between sharp edges and gentle curves by sight.

Then she had to dismiss those meandering thoughts, because she didn’t need the sharpness of perfect vision to realise that, one, Hikaku was _seated_ a distance away from her, and Izuna was leaning forward with his arms resting at the back of Hikaku’s chair; second, the reason why Izuna was doing that was because Hikaku’s chair had _wheels_ on them, and hence; third, Hikaku _still_ was missing his legs.

“I have a question for you,” she rasped out, “little cousin.”

“What is it?” Tobirama’s voice came from behind her.

Touka didn’t turn to look at him, keeping her gaze fixed upon Hikaku and Izuna. “You said just now that you grew me a new heart.” She didn’t wait for a affirmative nod or sound, instead barrelling on, “If that’s the case, _why_ hasn’t you grown Hikaku new legs?”

“Gods above,” Madara muttered from somewhere further away, “how are you accepting the fact that he actually grew you a new heart _that_ easily?”

“It’s my little cousin,” Touka said, jerking her chin sideways in lieu of waving a hand. “From whom I’m still waiting for an answer.”

“You haven’t been awake for ten minutes,” Izuna said, meeting her gaze squarely as an eyebrow hiked up, “and you’re already demanding things from people.” 

“I’m curious, Touka-nee,” Tobirama said. “Why do you think Hikaku-san’s legs are more important than your _heart_?” A brief pause. “As you can see, he can make do without his legs. You cannot do so without a heart.” He was using that tone of voice that said that he had already assumed her answer but wanted confirmation nonetheless.

Touka tilted her head back slightly in a motion that, Tobirama knew, showed that she wanted to roll her eyes without her actually doing it. “I’ve survived all this while, haven’t I?” she asked, voice flat. When Hashirama made an inquiring sound from wherever he was in the room – she wouldn’t be surprised if he had decided to become one with the wall or floor or something, since now she could tell that the room was made of wood – she snorted. 

“None of you were here when I was last awake,” she explained shortly. “Tobirama was definitely still in Uzushio. So, the fact that you’re all here now means that I’ve been asleep for a while now.” Pushing away the encroaching horror of being in a coma before it could descend upon her, she drew her arms closer to her body. “Given that I was kept alive somehow despite missing a _heart_, I’m pretty sure you could’ve just fixed Hikaku-san’s legs _before_ fixing me.”

“He could not have,” Mito said. Her voice was so terribly close that Touka nearly started; Mito had been so quiet and unmoving all this while that Touka had nearly forgotten that she was practically using the other woman as a pillow to prop herself up. “I kept you alive by trapping you in a seal that stops time, Touka-kun, and that seal was not meant to last.” She paused.

“You would have died if Tobirama didn’t have the seal which transferred Hashirama’s chakra to me,” Mito continued, “because maintaining the seal on you would’ve eventually exhausted my chakra reserves, and no one else, not even Tobirama, has enough sealing knowledge to take over keeping you alive.”

A seal draining enough that even _Mito_, with her near-limitless reserves, had trouble keeping up? Touka blinked. “Hah,” she said, and cocked her head to the side. “That’s a good reason, I guess.”

“For someone who was rescued from the brink of death,” Madara drawled from where, Touka could see now, he was leaning against the door with his arms loosely crossed over his chest, “you’re being remarkably ungrateful.”

Still not taking her eyes off Izuna and Hikaku, Touka huffed out an annoyed breath. “Forgive me for not seeing the point of being healed first,” she said, matching Madara’s drawl with a sardonic tone of her own. “I specialise in taijutsu,” and technically genjutsu, though she hadn’t used that much on the battlefield after she had earned her place as a spear of the Senju, “and I can’t exactly fight like this, can I?”

She was watching Izuna and Hikaku carefully enough that she immediately caught the shifts in their expressions: Hikaku’s eyes widened while Izuna, true to form as a sneaky bastard, ducked his head down.

Letting out a sigh, she spread out her hands the best she could. Which, to prove her point further, wasn’t very much. “Meanwhile, Hikaku-san managed an entire battle and – I’m guessing here – defeated the enemy even while injured. Given that the village might come under attack again, it’s more sensible to heal him before me.” 

“Hah,” Hashirama said. Touka was almost tempted to turn to look for him, because his voice sounded _strange, _like her words had revealed something to him that he had never realised before. The only reason why she didn’t was because—

“Touka,” Izuna said, the slight tremor in his voice entirely betraying his efforts to hide his face from her. “Why do you think that we would prioritise who to receive care base on who would be the most _useful_?”

Before Touka could even open her mouth – the answer was so incredibly _obvious_ – Madara’s voice cut in: “Because she’s a fucking Senju, that’s why.”

“What,” Touka’s eyes narrowed as she turned to face him, “is that supposed to mean, _Uchiha_?”

“I did not mean it as an insult,” Madara said, black eyes meeting hers with an ease that made her want to punch him in the face. “Only the truth.” His lips curved up in a smirk that looked mirthless before he shook his head. “And here I was wondering if you had managed to escape, especially since you didn’t live in the same house.”

Touka’s eyes went wide. Her breath choked in her throat.

“Madara,” Hashirama started, but he didn’t get to finish his sentence, because Touka was already tilting her head towards him. 

“You _told_ him,” she glared at her clan head, at the man who was supposed to _keep_ their secrets, not fling them out in public for everyone to gawk at. “You actually _told_—”

“He did,” Mito said, arm tightening on Touka’s shoulders to keep her still. “Because the weight of the silence is far too much, and he has grown tired of it.”

How could that be? How could _Hashirama_, who had always been the strongest of all of them, be _tired?_ How could— how could keeping their secrets, the most basic of duties owned by any member of any clan, be so draining that it had carved shadows into the corners of Hashirama’s eyes? 

Lips parting, Touka tried to speak, to refute those words. But her throat refused to work.

Mito had really chosen her words too well, she thought dazedly to herself. _Weight_. Her hand lifted and tremulously rested upon her own chest, feeling her supposedly-new heart beat. She was wearing nothing but a cotton yukata, she realised belatedly, and the threads of the cloth occasionally caught upon the thick, rough calluses on the pads of her fingertips. 

Weight. She had never really thought of it that way.

A quiet _thud_. Touka looked up in time to meet Hikaku’s eyes. He had his hands held out, palms up, towards her. For long moments, she only returned that gaze, uncomprehending, before Izuna heaved an overdramatically-loud sigh and reached forward. His hands were similarly callused, but they felt warmer, somehow, as he took both of hers and gave the left to Hikaku. 

As Touka stared, Hikaku folded her barely-smaller hand into his own, his nail tracing over the thin bones on her wrist down to her elbow. A shudder wreaked down her spine, settling into heat that pooled at the base of her stomach, and that warmth only grew when Izuna took her right hand and pressed the back of her folded fingers against his own forehead.

“Oh,” she heard Hashirama say from somewhere very far away. “Is that why?”

“I told you that I wouldn’t have said a thing to my own brother if you didn’t want me to,” Madara answered that entirely nonsensical question. “When I told, I wasn’t telling _my_ _brother_ or _my_ _clansman_.” There were some peculiar stresses to those words that Touka really should consider once her attention wasn’t captivated by Izuna and Hikaku. “Do you get what I mean?”

A soft sigh ghosted over her ear. Then Mito pulled away, her hand briefly brushing over Touka’s shoulder before she stood up. “You would be much better at the subtleties of conversation, Madara,” Mito tutted, “if you did not give into the urge to hammer the point in right after making it.”

“My apologies for disappointing,” Madara said, clearly sniping back. “Does it make you feel better if I tell you that I’m _not _actually trying to be subtle?” 

When had Madara and Mito gotten to the point where they could _banter_ with each other? In fact, when had Mito started addressing Madara by his given name instead of ‘Uchiha-sama,’ which she had preferred for months? And, more importantly, why was Touka so completely uninterested in figuring out such important information now that Izuna was climbing onto the futon to serve as her pillow, and Hikaku had hold of both of her hands?

A cold touch to her jaw. Touka barely bit back the shriek, and it was only due to her still-slow reflexes that she didn’t end up smacking Tobirama right in the throat.

He didn’t seem particularly perturbed. Then again, Touka couldn’t exactly see his expression past the black blindfold that he was using, for some reason, to cover nearly the entiret y of the top half of his face. 

“They have been worried about you, Touka-nee,” Tobirama said, voice very quiet. “And in case Hikaku-san doesn’t inform you, he has been a great help with the modifications of the seal that grew you a new heart.”

Touka nodded. When Tobirama didn’t respond, didn’t seem to make any sign that he could tell that she had nodded, she retrieved her hand from Izuna’s grasp, and then reached out and lightly brushed her fingertips over the edge of the black blindfold. “What happened?”

“A mistake,” Tobirama told her immediately, one corner of his mouth lifting into a crooked smile. “One that I made entirely of my own volition.”

That sounded rehearsed enough that Touka felt her own lips quirking up. Maybe it wasn’t appropriate to laugh at an injury so severe – it was clear even to her fogged mind that Tobirama was now completely and likely permanently blind instead of the ‘shitty eyesight’ that he had been dealing with before – but Touka found no issue with laughing at her own heart being shredded into pieces by a giant chakra beast in the shape of a fox. She wouldn’t take much offence at her little cousin laughing at it, either.

“I’m guessing that you’ve figured out how to deal with it,” she said.

“For the most part,” Tobirama inclined his head. “I’m not entirely finished, but I have the basic theory down.”

This time, instead of nodding, Touka hummed her approval under her breath. “And you’re confident enough that you can carry it out?”

“Of course,” Tobirama said, nose wrinkling slightly in the way he always did whenever he felt offended by what he perceived as his family’s lack of faith in him. “And I have some help as well.”

“He does,” Hikaku said, voice muffled slightly by how much he had lowered his head – his chin was practically digging into his ribs. “I can vouch for that.”

There was an entire story there that Touka would have to ask them to tell her once her body was up to listening on long periods of time. Right now, she could feel her attention drifting slightly, so she focused back on Tobirama, wriggling a hand out of Hikaku’s grasp to grip her little cousin’s bicep with as much strength as she could spare.

Because that was all that mattered, wasn’t it? Tobirama could figure out a way to navigate past his new disability, which meant that he wouldn’t need to be consigned to being plant food like shinobi who had been so injured on the battlefield that they could no longer serve. Tobirama would never have to end up like Touka’s father, dead in a bed far from the battlefield because he had become a drain on their resources instead of an active contributor.

She always had faith in her little cousin to keep ahead of the curve, to stay efficient and useful no matter the kind of obstacles thrown his way that could stop him from being so. Once again, she was proven right.

“Good,” she said. “I won’t have to scold you then.”

The nose wrinkle immediately morphed into a scowl. “I have already been scolded multiple times,” Tobirama said. He sounded, Touka thought, like he was _whining_, and had to bite back a laugh. 

“By Hashirama and Mito?” Touka asked, curious despite herself. 

“Aneue didn’t scold,” Tobirama shook his head and confirmed Touka’s suspicions. “But Madara did.”

From where he was seated behind her, Izuna snorted. The tip of his nose lightly rubbed over the curve of her shoulder as he said, “Nii-san scolded and nagged and fussed more than an entire army of worried mothers put together,” he said. “I think he more than made up for Mito not scolding him.”

Touka’s eyes slid over to the man immediately. This time, she found Madara standing near the window, bracketed by Hashirama on his left and Mito on his right with his head tilted towards the latter. His eyes flicked up when he noticed her watching, and he nodded solemnly to her unasked question.

He would take care of her little cousin. He had, Touka suspected, been doing so ever since Tobirama had left the Senju house for the Uchiha. She had heard the vows he had made, all those months ago in the Akimichi’s lands, and she had seen how affected he had been when they had all thought that Izuna had stabbed Tobirama, but…

But there had always been a hundred reasons to avert her eyes, and a thousand ones to disbelieve what she did see. 

Now, both of her hands were held captive by one Uchiha, while another had wrapped himself entirely around her, so much that it was impossible for her to pull away in her current weakened state. They could crush her now, either by destroying her hands and making her lose everything she had worked so hard to gain, or by taking her life with just one twist of the neck. 

She should feel horrified; she should make them stop by shoving them away, because they were _Uchiha _and she was _Senju_ and—

And their clans had nothing and everything to do with it.

What was it that Madara had said? _I was wondering if you had managed to escape_. The aches and pains of her body might be distracting her, but not so much that she couldn’t understand exactly what it was that he had meant. She understood perfectly, too, the significance of Hashirama explicitly _telling _Madara everything he had suffered through even when he had only left out puzzle pieces for her to piece together on her own. And now, watching Tobirama as he turned towards Madara like a flower would towards the rising sun, she knew exactly what he felt.

It might not be exactly the same – she likely would never feel the urge to curl into Izuna’s or Hikaku’s arms like Tobirama sometimes did with Madara – but it was similar enough that she could feel herself instinctively skitter away from shaping words around it. Words made things too real and too solid, burdened with so much _weight_ that they threatened to choke. 

She would rather stay silent and enjoy what she had, for however long her fortune would allow her to have it.

(Because she knew it would not last. Nothing really did. They were trying their best now to set a foundation for a village that, they hoped, would last at least a century, if not more.

How could they guarantee that what they build would last the same? Had the Senju not changed irrevocably from when they had first begun as a clan, the original Will of Fire distorted beyond recognition? And if Hashirama’s plans succeed, then…

What was a century when compared to a millennium?)

“Touka-nee,” Tobirama said, pulling her attention back to him. “Should we leave you alone?” 

_No, don’t_, she thought immediately. But what else could they do here? Besides, now that they were all back in the village, they surely had duties that they had to tend to—

“Yeah, you guys should go,” Izuna said, his every word rumbling from his chest to Touka’s back. “Hikaku and me are staying right here.”

“You took the words right out of my mouth, Izuna-sama,” Hikaku murmured. He had recaptured Touka’s hand, and was now bent over it with both eyes closed. She could feel his warm, even breaths brushing across the thin skin on the backs. “We’re staying here.”

“Oh,” Touka said. “But what if I’d rather you go?”

“I might not be a sensor, Touka, but I _have_ spent a hell of a long time with you, and just you,” Izuna said, mirth threading into his voice in a way that made Touka’s eyebrow start to twitch. “I can tell by now when something coming out of your mouth is utter bullshit.” 

“You know,” Touka tilted her head to the side to try to catch Izuna’s eyes, “I’m pretty sure that I can still kick your ass even like this.”

“Oh, I’m depending on that,” Izuna said, voice suddenly rising in pitch. His teeth clicked together right beside her ear before he let out a long, shuddering breath. “You have no idea how much it fucked me up to see you lying there, completely still, and wrapped in chakra threads like one of the embalmed dead.”

“Are you going to tell me,” Touka said, shoving a mocking note into her own voice, “that you’re going to be sad if I did end up dead?”

Izuna barked a laugh that he immediately muffled in her shoulder. “Fuck’s sake, Touka,” he said, barely audible with how much his words were crushed by her skin, “if you haven’t figured that out by now, you’re a lot stupider than I thought you were.”

Touka opened her mouth. But before she could say a word, she heard a quiet _click_. When she turned her head, she realised that Tobirama had pulled a long bamboo stick out of a tiny sealing scroll and was now tapping it on the floor.

“I think,” he said, a tiny smile hovering at the corner of his mouth, “it’s past time that the rest of us take our leave.” 

A snort came from behind him, and Madara was suddenly there, taking the hand Tobirama wasn’t using to hold the cane and placing it on the crook of his own elbow. “I’d tell you to shout if you need anything,” he told her, one eyebrow cocked, “but I think my brother and my cousin will fall over themselves to get you anything you need. Make use of them as you will.”

“Madara-sama,” Hikaku sighed. “We’re not all like you.”

Before Touka could demand for the meaning of _that_, Madara harrumphed and turned on his heel. “Maybe you should start trying, then,” he said, and walked away with Tobirama on his arm like he belonged there.

Touka watched as they left, their steps in tandem with each other, Madara’s body automatically shifting to accommodate both Tobirama’s presence and the cane he used to sweep in front of him. When Hikaku had told her that he could vouch for Tobirama receiving help, she had thought he meant with his experiments. Not with something as simple as _walking_.

This was the first time, Touka thought, when Tobirama’s plans and attempts to get past the obstacles that life had thrown at him involved _depending_ on someone else for help, especially to this extent. It should worry her, because dependence bred vulnerability, and every Senju knew that vulnerability was but an inch away from worthlessness.

But when she opened her mouth, what came out was instead: “Thank you, little cousin, for saving my life.”

Strands of white danced over the black blindfold as Tobirama turned towards her, shaking his head. “It’s not entirely to my and Hikaku-san’s credit,” he said, and there was a small smile tucked into the corners of his mouth. “But you’ll have to meet the third person responsible on another day.”

“Only because she’s a grumpy bastard who would only appear when it suits her,” Madara added, “and she doesn’t feel like it today.” Then, before Touka could say another word, he swept Tobirama out of the door.

“I think,” Mito said, hands folding into her trailing sleeves, “Madara is attempting at some kind of subtlety or coded language, but he’s not doing very well.”

“You give him too much credit,” Izuna commented, chin digging into Touka’s shoulder. “He just likes the sound of his own voice so much that he must always have the last word, no matter how nonsensical or useless it might be.”

Mito’s shoulders lifted slightly before she withdrew her fan and hid her face behind it. Touka stared, because that was what Mito did whenever she laughed out of real mirth instead of some sort of politeness or manipulative ploy, and she had done that because of _Izuna_. That was… Touka let out a sigh when Hashirama followed his wife out and closed the door behind him

“How long has it been?” she asked.

“A little more than three weeks,” Hikaku answered, hands still sandwiching hers. “It has been a long time, Touka-san.”

“Three weeks isn’t that long,” Touka objected immediately. Especially since the changes that had occurred within the others seemed to suggest that it had been far longer. Gods above, she had been expecting them to tell her that she had been frozen by the seal for _years_.

“It’s a very long time,” Hikaku murmured, “to do nothing but watch, and wait, and hope.”

“Hikaku-san—”

“We have been worried,” Hikaku said, cutting her off. “We have been upset—”

“Maybe you _have been_, Hikaku,” Izuna muttered, “but I still _am_.”

“Accurate as always, Izuna-sama,” Hikaku nodded, shoulders shaking slightly even though he still refused to raise his head. “Yes, Touka-san. We are _still_ worried and upset.”

She wanted to tell them that she had never asked for them to be; that it was unfair of them to expect her to bear the burden of their emotions when she had never asked for it. She wanted to dismiss everything they had said to be nothing but the overdramatic rambling of the Uchiha, none of whom had ever mastered the skill of emotional control that the Senju had taken so much pride in. But—

“I’m sor—”

“If you apologise, I will bash your head in,” Izuna cut her off immediately. 

Touka blinked. “If you’re so worried about my physical health,” she said slowly, “why the hell are you threatening me with bodily harm?”

“They are entirely different things,” Izuna said, managing a lofty tone even though his face was still shoved into the back of her neck. “One’s a head injury, the other one’s a chest wound. Entirely different.”

“You’re fucking ridiculous,” Touka said, amused despite herself. Then she realised that she had turned her head somehow, and her lips were dangerously close to brushing over the top of his hair. She quickly jerked back to stare straight ahead at the wall. “How did the battle end, by the way? Did we win?”

For some reason, Hikaku froze at her words.

“Well,” Izuna said, tone light in a way that had Touka immediately narrowing her eyes, “that depends on your definition of winning.”

“That is a remarkably shitty answer,” Touka shot back. “Even for you.”

To her surprise, Izuna didn’t laugh like he usually would when she insulted him. Instead, he sighed. “According to what Hikaku told me, no one from the Senju – except for you and Mito – saw the Uchiha elders attacking the village, and those men are no longer an issue. Also, the creature that kidnapped him and controlled him had been burnt to ash on this side, too.”

“On this side?” Touka interrupted.

“Mm.” She could feel Izuna’s nod from the soft brush of his hair over her skin. “I burned the other one with Amaterasu.”

It took her a moment to remember what he was talking about. Hikaku had told them that the creature could split into two, and Izuna had separated from them to chase it into ‘Yamagakure’ into the Land of Lightning in the first place. If Hikaku had destroyed the one controlling those elders, and Izuna had managed to find and burn to ash the other one…

“So,” Touka said, cocking her head to the side as she forced her terribly-slow mind to work, “The creature is entirely gone, then?”

“As far as we can tell,” Izuna said. “In any case, Hikaku saw exactly what a mind infected by the creature looks like under the Sharingan, and I’ve spread the knowledge through all of the Uchiha shinobi. Given that there’s almost always someone using or training their Sharingan inside the compound, we’ll never be caught off-guard again.” 

Stifling the instinctive shiver at the thought of the Sharingan being mentioned so casually – as if it was a common fuuton or doton jutsu that anyone could learn and train themselves in – Touka nodded. It seemed that the hunting trip that she and Izuna went on ended up a success, after all. That should be something they should celebrate, shouldn’t it?

Except— Izuna was still hiding his face in her shoulder. And Hikaku had not lifted his head to meet her eyes even once since she had woken up. 

“There’s something the two of you aren’t telling me,” Touka said, “and it’s bothering you enough that you can’t even pretend to be proud of getting rid of a major threat?” 

Hikaku let out a long, shuddering sigh; the first sound he had made since Touka had brought up the battle. “What is there to be proud of, Touka-san,” he said, voice very muffled, “when we have failed you entirely?”

Touka blinked. “Huh?” she said eloquently. When Hikaku did not look up, and also refused to relinquish her hands from his grasp so she could smack him on the top of his head, Touka let out a hissing breath through her teeth. “Explain,” she snapped out. “Stop looking so fucking depressed and _explain_ to me what you mean.”

“We brought him back.” It was Izuna who answered, his arms shifting to her waist. When his grip tightened, pain flared sharply in her ribs; she ground her teeth together and ignored it. “The beast that nearly killed you.”

“Hah,” Touka said. “I don’t hear people screaming in panic, though.” When there was something the size of that massive fox hanging around, people didn’t tend to stay calm.

Izuna made a wet, burbling sound that, Touka supposed, could count as laughter in a pinch. “He’s outside the village,” Izuna said. “And I think he has an ability to change his size, so he’s not always gigantic. But,” his swallow was very loud in her ear, “he has a standing invitation to come in, and that’s—”

“He nearly _killed_ you,” Hikaku said, his voice sharp like a whip cracking through the air. “He _would_ have killed you if not for Mito-sama and besshitsu-san’s seals, and he’s now _outside_ and he didn’t even seem to _remember_ to have hurt you at all, and we—”

“We’re planning to let him stay,” Izuna said.

“You’re giving him the _choice _to stay,” Hikaku interrupted, the sideways jerk of his head sudden and vicious. “You’re letting him choose whether to—”

“Wait—” Touka tried.

“Hikaku, you know why we need him,” Izuna said. “You know why we can’t force him to—”

“He doesn’t deserve _choices_,” Hikaku said, finally lifting his head to glare at Izuna. “He doesn’t even deserve to be considered a _he_ at all, because he’s a _beast_ and he should be considered as such. If he is to be used, then he should be chained like an animal—”

His eyes, Touka noted detachedly, were red, and the black spots weren’t the tomoes of the usual Sharingan. No, they were the pinwheel blades of the _Mangekyou_, and—

“That’s just not possible, Hikaku!” Izuna was nearly shouting now. “If we cage him, we’ll just end up with him destroying us in the future because of his rage. Or, worse still, others like him will hunt us down and burn the village into ash because they want to take vengeance for and free their brother!”

Alright, Touka nodded to herself. So, the fox had siblings, and they were likely as large and as powerful as he was. She tugged a little harder at her hands.

Hikaku tightened his grip even further, now nearly crushing her bones as his lips drew back into a snarl. “It has already been proven that the Sharingan can control those like him,” Hikaku said. “If that’s the case, then we should enslave him because that’s all he—”

“_Enough_.”

Touka had shoved as much authority and anger into her voice as she could, but her throat still ached and all that came out was a rasp, barely louder than a whisper. Yet, to her surprise, Hikaku immediately clicked his teeth together. And, behind her, Izuna drew in a rattling inhale and shut up as well.

That was surprising. She shelved it away to be considered later.

“If you two keep arguing, you’re going to get out of this room,” Touka said. “Because I’m the only one stuck here, so if you’re here, it is to talk to me.” She breathed in through her nose. “And, for the next ten minutes, you’ll talk _only _to answer my questions. Understood?”

“Are you sure you’re Mito’s apprentice instead of Hashirama’s?” Izuna asked, sounding, for some reason, a little awed. “Because that’s one hell of a clan head voice you have there.”

“What _did_ I just say?” Touka snapped.

“Shutting up,” Izuna said. His fingers lifted away from her waist in, she supposed, a half-hearted attempt to raise his arms in surrender without letting go of her.

“Hikaku-san?” Touka flicked her gaze towards him.

“My apologies, Touka-san,” Hikaku said, leaning against the back of his chair again. “I will not argue with Izuna-sama anymore.” 

“Good,” Touka said. She would have folded her arms if she had them free, but since she didn’t, she dipped her head down and tapped her chest lightly with her chin. She waited a few moments more, ensuring that the two of them _were_ quiet, before she spoke: “Izuna.”

“Mm?”

“What do we need the fox for?”

“We don’t need—” Hikaku started, but subsided when Touka shot him a mild glare. 

“Tobirama has a plan,” Izuna said. “Or, well, Tobirama and Mito-san, but mostly Tobirama.” He paused. “Mito-san is going to make a seal that will, uh, trap the fox inside herself—”

Touka blinked rapidly. Did she hear that correctly?

“—by doing that, she can use his chakra to power a variation of the regeneration seal that Tobirama has made, which will allow every shinobi of the village – and maybe civilians, we haven’t decided yet – to recover from injuries approximately one second after receiving them.” Another pause. Touka had the distinct impression that, if he hadn’t buried his face into her shoulder, Izuna would be scratching the back of his own neck. “It’s supposed to cause the extinction of war, but I’m not entirely sure about that part.”

“Oh,” Touka breathed. “He fucking did it. He found a way to build his undying army.” 

“Huh?” That didn’t come from Izuna alone; even though Hikaku didn’t make a sound, the way he suddenly lurched forward spoke volumes of his shock.

“It’s something my little cousin had thought of before,” Touka said, frowning as she tried to remember exactly. “The issue about war is that, in the end, it becomes that of attrition: whoever has enough shinobi and resources to keep going will win, because the other side can’t fight anymore. Tobirama thought – we _all_ thought – for a long time that the Senju and Uchiha resources are equal, which means that the war will never end.”

“I distinctly remember him telling me this,” Izuna muttered under his breath. “But how does that—”

“If the army that fights doesn’t die, then the numbers will only increase and never decrease,” Touka said, talking over him because she had already told him to shut up. “In that case, there is no way for the side with the undying army to ever lose. Which means,” and this was the part even she had the doubts about, “no one will ever try to war against them, since there is no chance of winning.”

In her experience, people rarely fought or went to war for the sake of winning. They fought wanting to survive and gain a victory, of course, but the Senju and the Uchiha had warred for generations without any of the fighting shinobi entirely understanding the reasons for doing so; they simply _did_ so.

The Senju might be more logical than the Uchiha, but the war between them was something Touka could never see as anything approaching _rational_.

“So, you’re saying,” Izuna said, interrupting her thoughts, “that Tobirama was actually planning this _before_ we started building the village?”

She considered reminding him to be quiet, and then realised that there really wasn’t a point. “He came up with the idea when he was _ten_,” she said instead. Part of it, she knew, had something to do with her second-youngest cousin’s death, and how much Tobirama had wanted to keep his only remaining younger brother alive. “But he had never figured out _how_ to do it until now.”

“I understand now,” Hikaku said, shaking his head, “why you’re so unsurprised that besshitsu-san managed to regenerate your heart.”

“Tobirama looks at impossibilities and natural laws and think of them as quaint snacks,” Touka shrugged.

“You know,” Izuna said, “I’m really fucking happy that damned fox took a walk. Because I would _not_ want to fight against an army of the undead.”

“Technically,” Touka said, lips twitching, “if Tobirama’s plan goes through, you will _become_ one of the undead yourself.”

“Things are lot less scary when they’re standing on your side of the battlefield,” he pointed out.

Humming in affirmative, Touka turned her attention back to Hikaku, who had returned to pressing her knuckles against his own forehead. “Hikaku-san,” she said, and waited until he raised his eyes to meet hers. “From your argument just now, I gathered that you’re against giving the fox a choice to contribute to Tobirama’s scheme.”

“Yes,” Hikaku said. Touka twisted her hands in his grasp, freeing a couple of fingers, and grabbed his chin with them so he wouldn’t avert his eyes from hers.

“Izuna is right,” she said. “A being as powerful as that won’t take well to being trapped and used, no matter the purpose or intention. Sealing him by force, _especially_ with Mito as a container, is just asking for trouble in the long run.”

“But,” Hikaku said, breath tremulous over her fingers, “he nearly killed you, and he doesn’t even seem to remember or care about what he did.”

“Yes,” Touka acknowledged. “So?”

“What?” Hikaku blinked.

“So?” Touka repeated. “He’s a giant chakra beast – I don’t think he runs by human logic, much less human etiquette. I don’t expect him to apologise for putting a hole through my chest, especially since,” she caught Hikaku’s gaze and held it, “he was being controlled at the time.”

“How could you be so—”

“I am a _shinobi_,” Touka reminded him. “Death hovers behind my shoulder, for he has already made his claim on my life, and is simply waiting for a moment of carelessness to take it.” She gave him a lopsided grin. “When I threw you, Hikaku-san, I did not expect to wake up ever again, and I was fine with that.”

Hikaku stared at her, unblinking and silent. The only movement coming from him was the slow, constant spinning of the pinwheel blades in his eyes; he didn’t even seem to be breathing.

“Putting aside how fucking disturbing it is to hear you talk about dying like it is _nothing_,” Izuna said, his voice once again bright with false cheer, “you’re missing some information here, Touka.”

Without taking her eyes off Hikaku, Touka snorted. “Clearly.” She rolled the shoulder he was leaning against. “Enlighten me.”

“Hikaku’s Sharingan evolved into the Mangekyou,” Izuna said, “because he watched you die.”

“I’m not dead,” Touka pointed out reasonably.

“It should have been a fatal wound,” Izuna continued, “and _it was_, except for Mito’s forbidden seal.” He let out a shuddering breath. “Touka, the Sharingan evolves into the Mangekyou for one reason, and one alone.” His grip on her tightened so much that her ribs started protesting again, but Touka ignored the pain, focusing on the increasing harshness of his breathing.

“When we caused the death of someone we love dearly.”

Touka jerked, nearly smashing her head into Izuna’s as she turned to stare. “You—”

“I didn’t stop Dad from going on his suicide mission,” Izuna continued, his eyes fixed on a spot right next to the ranma. “I suspected what he was going to do, but I didn’t stop him. Nii-san didn’t, either. When we found his body…” He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head hard. “You cannot tell Hikaku that you wouldn’t have minded dying, Touka, because _he _minded. Very much.”

“Oh,” Touka said. “I…” What could she say? What _was _possible for her to say? Hikaku and her had fought against each other for years, then she had found him in that cave, and he had won her respect. They had spent a week in close enough quarters that she had his heartbeat engraved upon the back of her own ribs, and now…

Now he was clinging to her hands like they were his only lifeline, and his Mangekyou spun— _existed_— because of her. When all she had tried was the one thing she _could_ have at that time. 

This was… this was far too much. The weight of it, wordless yet hovering in the air, threatened to choke. She squeezed her eyes shut.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” she whispered.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Izuna told her. His cheek was warm and smooth as he rubbed it against her jaw, and her breath hitched from how much he was touching her and how much she didn’t mind when she could never— when she had always shied away from touch because it meant exposing too many vulnerabilities and she could never allow herself to be—

“Touka-san,” Hikaku said, the breath of her name like a benediction. Her eyes snapped back open to stare at him, and she realised that his eyes were black again, black and large because—

He had leaned forward so much that he had let go of her hands to support himself on the floor. His breath ghosted over her lips. For a moment, Touka thought he was going to kiss her, but he only— _only_ touched his forehead to hers instead.

Long-fingered hands – with pale, unmarred backs that resemble the wings of doves in flight – brushed her hair away from her neck. Then Izuna nosed against the nape, letting out a long sigh.

Her hands, now freed, clawed on the futon. She did not know what to do with them. She did not know what she was allowed to touch.

“All you have to do,” Hikaku breathed, “is to stay alive.”

“Will it be enough,” she swallowed, feeling her eyes start to burn and not knowing why, “if I am glad that I survived?”

“Yes,” Hikaku said. Izuna added his affirmative, too, with the gentle nuzzle of his cheek against the back of her ear. Touka fought down a shiver.

Hesitantly, she raised one of her hands to cup the back of Hikakau’s neck. As her thumb glided over his throat, his breath stuttered out of him like a series of shy kisses. At the same time, she reached back with her other hand to seek for Izuna’s, wrapping her fingers around his thin, fragile-seeming wrist. His breath hitched, warmth teasing the curve of her ear, as she stroked downwards.

Their pulses beat against his skin, syncopated to each other and to hers. But they formed a symphony of their own together, a rhythm that seeped into her blood, wound around her nerves, and soothed the persistent ache in her chest. 

“Then I’m glad,” she whispered, “for every beat of my heart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the regeneration seal, created chapters upon chapters ago, has always been meant to be this AU’s equivalent of Edo Tensei. Because I took what canon vaguely gave as Tobirama’s reasoning for it – an undead army to demoralise the enemy and reduce the number of the own dead – smashed it with fanon’s insistence that he created it to bring his brothers back, took out the entire ‘raising the dead’ part and replaced it with bijuu… and came up with this.
> 
> I did not expect to end up with this threesome. I _really_ did not expect that this threesome would take up an entire chapter to themselves. /sighs (I know that you guys are happy that there are more chapters, but holy god, at this point, I’m eternally screaming about how this fic keeps fucking over my outlines and my usual discipline.)
> 
> Speaking about discipline, uh. My country has started on a lockdown last week and it’s fucked with my head pretty badly. Which is kind of bad because my mental health has never been particularly great in the first place. I’m going to try my best to keep up my updating schedule, but it’s getting very difficult to be motivated to write (or do anything productive), and I’m running out of chapters in reserve to post. 
> 
> <s>(It does not help that I keep thinking that I did something wrong last chapter because a lot of people didn’t comment on it, but I’m pretty sure that’s just my brain weasels talking. Unless I _did_ do something wrong, at which point I shall bury myself in a cave and not come out ever.)</s> Anyway, I’m saying all this because I might have to go on hiatus at some point. I’m trying very hard not to. In any case, if there’s anything you like this chapter, or any thoughts you have, please comment? They motivate me quite a bit. Thank you. ;~;


	25. konohagakure no sato

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your lovely, lovely comments last chapter. They did make the this horrible lockdown period better, and I'm plodding along with writing (though it's far slower than my usual speed, it's better than nothing). I adore all of you. (*/_＼)
> 
> **Warnings: **This entire chapter is about politics and systems of governance. With bits and pieces about trauma and very brief descriptions of panic attacks.

“The Akimichi will be coming in two days, and Akimichi Chouta said that the Nara and Yamanaka clan heads will be with him,” Hashirama announced. “So, the village will need at _least _an official name to show them.” 

“Before you start prattling,” Touka said, her drawling voice far stronger than it had been two days ago when she had just woken up, “can I get an answer to my fucking question?”

Hashirama’s silhouette, fuzzy at the edges to Tobirama’s chakra-sight, tipped to the side at the top. Tobirama mentally translated that as a tilt of the head as his older brother said, “I don’t remember your question.”

One of Touka’s hand lifted, the motion jerky in a way that Tobirama wasn’t sure was due to her lingering weakness or the faults of his own senses. “By the names of all of the gods,” Touka said, enunciating every word slowly and deliberately, “why are all of you _here_? I’m supposed to be resting, and your presence isn’t very _restful_.”

She spat that last word out like it had personally and mortally offended her. Tobirama suspected that it might as well have.

“The future of the village must be discussed,” Mito said. From her silhouette, Tobirama could vaguely recognise that she was holding something. Based on his memories, he guessed that it was a fan, and she was using it to hide the lower half of her face. “And we would really rather that you not go out of this room until you have been cleared by the medics, Touka-kun.”

“Which I have no issue with,” Touka said, tipping her head back slightly, “because I’d actually like to not keel over and die from my heart giving up on me during my first mission when I return to active duty. No, my issue is with why I’m even involved; this village-planning bullshit is between the five of you.”

Her sweeping hand indicated Hashirama, Mito, Madara, and Tobirama himself before fluidly shifting to smack Izuna on the back of the head for reasons that Tobirama couldn’t quite grasp. Had Izuna attempted to speak? “Leave me the fuck out of it and get out,” Touka finished.

“I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, Touka,” Madara said, “but your part in this ‘village-planning bullshit’ is rather integral.” 

“Bullshit,” Touka snorted. “It wasn’t my idea, I have nothing to do with the politics involved, and I did nothing with regards to the physical structures of the village. Ergo, I have nothing to do with any of this, and all of you need to get out.” 

Was she tired and making a fuss in order to get them to leave so she could rest? Frowning, Tobirama deliberately dropped his hand on top of the futon Touka was sitting on. The woven cotton conducted chakra just fine, and he scanned Touka with his senses as thoroughly as he could without her realising what he was doing.

… Hah; her chakra levels had definitely stabilised, and though there was the lingering hint of exhaustion, it was very faint. Touka had healed well after the procedure Tobirama had done to cut her chest open and regrow her heart. It was now perfectly fine to ignore her complaints about wanting to be left alone, because she wasn’t complaining to give herself an excuse to rest.

“If I don’t know any better,” Hashirama was saying, chakra spiking bright with mirth and making it difficult for Tobirama to concentrate on words, “I’d say that you’re looking for praise, Touka.”

“What I’m looking for,” Touka bit out, “is for all of you to get out of the room I’m supposed to be _resting in_, so that I can _rest_.” Her arms crossed over her chest. “Especially since your reasons for being here are rubbish.”

“You’re an integral part of the village, Touka-san, and you have contributed more than you know.”

Hikaku wasn’t a stranger; he had been the only Uchiha shinobi – aside from Madara and Izuna, of course –who had met Tobirama’s eyes when he still had them. (The three elders did not count, especially when they had been so unceremoniously killed by Hikaku himself.) Even if that wasn’t true, he had appeared on the battlefield enough times the past six years that Tobirama knew his chakra signature as well as he did anyone else’s in the room.

But he had never really _felt _it: Hikaku’s control over his emotions seemed to directly opposite to the roaring flames of Uchiha fires as a whole, because it had always been dampened to the point of being no stronger than a candleflame.

Now, as his silhouette turned towards Touka, the vague outlines of his fingers brushing over her bicep, his chakra _flared_, bright and warm, with his care for her and the sincerity of his words.

What did it say, Tobirama thought as he leaned back further into Madara’s arms, that Touka, who had always scoffed at marriage and claimed that she would rather die alone than become some broodmare, ended up with not just one but _two_ suitors, both from the clan she had been taught to hate since her birth? What was the significance of the three of them – Hashirama, Touka, and himself – all finding people they wanted to be with _outside_ of the clan, practically scrambling to escape being a Senju even though it had been practically hammered into their heads that they should be grateful for the privilege of being born one?

Or was it _because_ the superiority of the Senju had been so imposed upon them that they had sought others outside the clan for the sake of establishing the dominance of the Senju over the other clans of the Land of Fire? That had, after all, been part of Father’s reasoning for deciding that Hashirama’s bride had to be a Princess of Uzushio.

Tobirama snorted under his breath. _As if_.

(Hashirama thought he knew nothing, and understood nothing, and for the most part, he was right. But Tobirama had a scientist’s mind; blind belief and acceptance of contradictions that could not fit together were anathema to his very being, while curiosity was rooted in the core. He might not know much, but he knew exactly what did not _fit_.

He only remained ignorant because his older brother preferred him to be, and because he had witnessed all-too-many times how digging up the issue caused his brother and sister-in-law pain.

Besides, what was the use of acknowledging there were flaws within his own clan when he couldn’t think of solutions to fix the issues?)

“I can feel you thinking hard enough that steam should be coming out of your ears,” Madara said, a thread of amusement threading into his words.

“Is that no longer allowed?” Tobirama teased slightly, tilting his head towards the hand Madara had sunk into his hair.

“Only that you’re not telling me what it is,” Madara said, and Tobirama could feel the outline of his small smile against his own jaw. “Unless, of course, it’s something that you don’t_ want_ to tell me. By all means, keep your secrets.”

Ducking his head down, Tobirama huffed out a quiet laugh. “Your standards are ridiculous,” he pointed out. 

“But you know exactly what I mean,” Madara challenged. 

Tobirama shouldn’t; how could he know what was permissible and not when Madara had never set out clear parameters, and sometimes even contradicted himself? “It’s nothing particularly important,” he said, leaning back against Madara’s chest. “I’m simply glad thar Touka-nee is well enough to argue with Anija again.”

That hadn’t been what he was thinking about, but it was true: it had been incredibly disconcerting to feel Touka lie so still on the bed. His older cousin had always been akin to a raging thunderstorm, crashing through the assumptions and limits imposed upon her by the sex she was born with. She had ripped apart trees and torn down walls in order to carve a place within the clan that suited her; a constant whir of motion. Even when she had been asleep, she would still be moving and fighting in some form.

Madara’s chuckle ghosted over the shell of his ear as his husband brushed his lips over it. “Something you don’t want to tell me, then,” he said. “Alright.”

That was inaccurate. Tobirama hadn’t said what he was thinking not because he didn’t want Madara to know, but because it simply wasn’t _relevant_ at the moment. Madara’s standards were really so irrational.

He opened his mouth to tell him that, but before he could, another voice rang in his head. 

_I’m not even there, and I can still tell that you humans are wasting time_. Tobirama could practically see her now – the descriptions Madara had given him of her physical appearance had been so detailed that it was easy for him to visualise her now – sunning herself on the rooftop, her two tails whipping irritably through the air. _When are you going to get to the important business?_

_For an immortal, you’re remarkably impatient_, Tobirama pointed out.

Matatabi made one of those snorting noises again that – Tobirama would never tell her – sounded exactly like a cat hacking up a hairball. _I don’t see why you’re letting this pointless argument continue_.

Tobirama tuned back into his surroundings to figure out what she was talking about.

“—don’t need a physical sign of something to prove your contribution to the village,” Izuna was saying, voice tight with what seemed to be frustration but – upon closer inspection to his chakra -resembled mirth far more.

“Besides,” Hashirama said, “you nearly died to protect the village, which totally counts. Enough for me to want to carve your name – or better yet, your face – on that big empty cliff-face.”

Touka made a sound like she was choking Tobirama had no need for his eyes to _know _that Hashirama was grinning in a way that would soon—

Ah, there it was: the dull, thudding sound of Touka landing a punch somewhere on Hashirama’s body. Tobirama’s lips twitched.

_We have the entire afternoon and evening to discuss what we must,_ Tobirama reasoned. _And it has been months since all of us have been in the same room together._

_The bunch of you congregated just _yesterday_, _Matatabi said, sounding disgusted.

Tobirama could barely stifle his laughter. For someone who agreed to be chained to him for the rest of his natural life – which had to be at _least_ a couple of decades more, especially now that peace was a fast-approaching reality – because she had been lonely, Matatabi took so badly to socialisation that she shied away from even witnessing scenes of it. Which, Tobirama supposed, was why she was eavesdropping on the rooftop instead of taking up Hashirama’s invitation to be inside the room.

_That, and you’re all wasting what little summer sun that’s left by staying inside_, Matatabi said, feeding Tobirama an image of herself yawning and flashing all of her teeth. _In any case, I’m going to nap. Wake me when you’re finished._

Making a mental noise of assent in response, Tobirama hoped that the Uchiha lingering around their compound in the village had gotten used to her presence. Matatabi would be very exasperated if she was woken up by humans screaming in panic or fear.

(They were currently in Madara and Izuna’s house in the Uchiha compound because Izuna had requested for Touka to be moved from Hashirama and Mito’s perpetually-empty house after he had reached the village and learned about her condition. Then, when some of the Senju elders had tried to make a fuss, Madara had helped his brother shout in their faces, and screamed even louder after Izuna told him that Hikaku had agreed to move in as well.

Madara’s methods of negotiation were limited, it seemed, to overpowering his supposed adversaries through either his voice or his jutsu. Which, Tobirama supposed, was very similar to Hashirama’s methods of ‘smile at them with increasing threat until they back off.’

No wonder both of them were so hopeless that Mito and Izuna had taken upon themselves to be the official clan diplomats.) 

“—rama!” someone yelled. “Talk some sense into your stupid brother!”

“My success rate for that has never been high,” Tobirama replied automatically. “What am I supposed to dissuade him of, now?”

“Were you not listening?” Ah, that was Izuna, sounding exasperated.

“He tuned out something like fifteen minutes ago,” Madara answered for him. By the tone of his voice, Tobirama could tell that he was giving his brother that wide, toothy smirk. 

“I was talking to Matatabi,” Tobirama corrected. 

“Oh, yeah, where is our favourite bijuu in the form of a cat?” Hashirama asked.

“She is the _only_ bijuu in the form of a cat,” Tobirama pointed out patiently. “And she is on the roof, napping, because she thinks we’re wasting time. Now what is this idea you have that Izuna thinks to be stupid?”

“It’s not _stupid_!” Hashirama protested, exactly like Tobirama had suspected he would. “I was thinking that the cliff face is big and very empty, and no one likes having something like that looming over them every day. So,” he took a deep breath, chakra practically buzzing in his coils with excitement, “I was thinking that we can carve our faces there.”

“Carve,” Tobirama repeated slowly, “our faces.”

“All six of us,” Hashirama said. “No, seven, because Hikaku’s face must be up there alongside Touka and Izuna’s, of course. Maybe nine or ten would be better; we should include Tsurugi-san and Shiomi-san, since the two of them had helped a great deal with the village as well. It’ll be good to have three women instead of two, too, so us men won’t outnumber them so much, and ten is a nice, round number—”

“No one,” Touka gritted out, “is getting their faces _carved into a mountain_, Hashirama!”

“But why not?” Hashirama cried. “The cliff face is so _big_ and so _empty, _Touka! It’s scary to look at! Think of the children!”

“And you think that having _giant heads_ on it would make it _less_ terrifying?” Izuna shrieked.

“Izuna,” Madara said, his entire body trembling with the force of – Tobirama didn’t even need to check his chakra to tell – suppressed mirth. “He’s fucking with you.”

“What?!” 

“Aw, you spoiled my fun,” Hashirama said, pitching his voice higher into a whine. 

“Anija,” Tobirama broke in, because if he let Izuna start ranting – the sharp intake of breath from his direction was a good warning – he would not stop for the next hour or so. “_Why_ do you want our faces to be up on the cliff?”

“Wait, he’s _serious_ about that part?” Izuna yelped.

“I am,” Hashirama answered. His chakra had calmed down within the last half a minute, reminding Tobirama now of the shadows of deep forests and the brief, unpredictable shudders of leaf litter. “There are several reasons for us to do that.” He paused. “None of them have anything to do with making the cliff look less scary. I know that having massive heads on it will make it more intimidating; that’s part of the actual point.”

Silence. “Alright,” Touka broke it first. “You’ve lost me.” 

“Did Izuna and Hikaku tell you about what Madara and I did while we were in the Land of Lightning?” Hashirama asked.

“You two destroyed an entire shinobi village,” Touka said, voice very dry. “And Tobirama made friends with an immortal chakra beast called a bijuu, who proceeded to follow him home.”

“That,” Tobirama pointed out, “is an oversimplified version of the events.”

“It’ll do,” Hashirama said. His silhouette shivered slightly as he waved a hand around the room. “So, after that happened, Izuna summoned one of his crows to deliver my letter to Mito.” Another couple of seconds of silence. Tobirama couldn’t tell if he was waiting for responses or if he was simply gathering his own thoughts. “Mito’s letters to the other clans carried a simple message: this is the power we hold, and this is the power that will protect them if they join the village.”

“But after our meeting with Kurama,” Mito said, her soft voice filling the room in much of the same way as Hashirama’s had, “I sent another letter to those clans, and also to the various clan heads of the Five Elemental Countries. It carries not a message, but an announcement.” Paper rustled and wood clicked as Mito closed her fan and tapped its length against her own palm. “That we have been acknowledged as gods by one who is akin to a god himself.”

“You did not,” Madara said, voice calm in a way that rang alarm bells in Tobirama’s head, “tell us about that part.”

“I did not,” Mito admitted easily, “because I did not think any of you would agree with this course of action, and convincing you about its merits would have taken too long.” There was a pause in which – Tobirama guessed – she smiled. “It has always been my policy to ask for forgiveness instead of permission.”

There was a moment when Tobirama thought that Madara was going to lose his temper. It wasn’t through the tightening of his arms around Tobirama’s waist or the grinding of his teeth, because neither happened. He only suspected because he could practically tell Madara’s mood by the air around him.

“Fine,” Madara said finally. “Why did you do it?”

“Deterrence,” Mito answered immediately. The outlines of her arms disappeared into the greater one of her body. Judging by the shape of her shoulders, she had likely folded her hands atop her lap. “The destruction of Yamagakure makes it clear that you and my husband are extremely powerful. The announcement implies that here are four others on the same level as the two of you.”

“Wait, _four_?” Izuna interrupted. “I thought I said that I was a messenger, and I didn’t mention Touka and Hikaku at all.” He paused. “Sorry.”

“Better that you didn’t,” Touka said, sounding wry. “I want nothing to do with this bullshit.”

“I might have embellished the truth,” Mito said delicately. When Madara snorted, clearly disbelieving the ‘might have,’ Mito lifted one shoulder into an uncaring shrug. “In any case, the message we sent out is clear: if two can destroy a village, what would they reckon six could do?”

“But,” Tobirama blurted out despite himself, “none of us can match up to Anija and Madara in terms of raw power.” Especially now that Madara had the Rinnegan and was very quickly gaining mastery of it.

How could a blind, near-civilian like him ever hope to match up to such legendary power?

“That doesn’t matter,” Mito shook her head. “As long as they _think_ that we are, then the Lightning Daimyo could not wage war against us. Not unless he wishes to court rebellion by appearing as an arrogant, uncaring fool who sends his shinobi to die for the sake of his own pride.” She let out a soft huff of breath that was nearly a chuckle. “And he would destroy his reputation not only among his own people, but throughout the rest of the Elemental Countries as well.”

“You’re trying to corner him so that he won’t retaliate against us for the destruction of Yamagakure,” Madara observed. When Mito nodded, he let out a sigh. “That’s not going to last long. Eventually the resentment will rise high enough to overtake caution and fear, and there _will _be war.”

“That’s why I’m talking about carving our faces into the cliff,” Hashirama picked up the thread from his wife. “It will make us seem larger than life. Greater than mere humans.” A significant pause. “Akin to the gods.” 

“But the people who see it every day will be our own villagers,” Izuna pointed out, voice low and tone thoughtful. “What’s the use of driving that point into _their_ heads?”

“One,” Hashirama’s hand stuck out from the silhouette of the rest of his body, “it’s a reminder of why they joined the village,” as he started ticking off his fingers, “which is to take advantage of the protection offered to them by those who are as powerful as gods. Two, it will concretise myth into truth because our villagers will believe in it, and therefore spread the belief to others. Three,” his shoulders shook slightly, “can you imagine what other visitors would think if they come in and the first thing they see are the giant stone faces of those whom they have heard to be gods?”

“I can imagine,” Madara said, dry. “But you’re not addressing my point, Hashirama. Fear can only work as a deterrent for so long before it’s overtaken by hatred and resentment. Especially if pride is involved.” One arm loosened from Tobirama’s waist as he brought it up to drag it through his own hair. “You know that well enough from the war between our clans.” 

“What,” Mito said slowly, “are you trying to say?”

“Eventually,” Izuna answered, leaning forward with his elbows on top of Touka’s futon, “_someone _will decide that the risks of going against six gods is worth it if it means they can regain their pride, or if they can express their hatred.” Linking his fingers together, he sighed. “Eventually, they will think that being able to hurt us, even in a small way, is worth their lives.”

“Why would—” Hashirama started.

“The moment they try attacking us,” Izuna talked over Hashirama ruthlessly, refusing to let him speak, “they will realise that Hashirama and Nii-san are the most powerful out of the six of us, and Touka and I are the weakest—”

“I’m not even going to protest that,” Touka said, tone very wry.

“—which means that we’re going to end up being the ones relentlessly attacked,” Izuna continued, his gaze on Hashirama heavy enough that Tobirama could feel it weighing down the air. 

“We won’t let them touch you,” Hashirama said, words snapping sharp in the air. “Between my mokuton and Madara’s Rinnegan—”

“And what’s going to happen the moment that they get one lucky shot?” Izuna said, clearly dragging a hand through his hair as he let out a frustrated sigh. “Are you and Madara going to destroy our _own_ village when you get angry? Or are you going to confine yourselves to hurting people not of our village, essentially creating a dividing line between us and everyone else?”

Hashirama’s inhale was very loud. “That’s thinking too far,” Hashirama said, voice tight to mirror the strict control he was holding over his emotions. “Because they won’t dare to attack us in the first place.”

“Oh, for fuck’s—” 

“Have you forgotten, Anija,” Tobirama cut Izuna off, “why I am Madara’s concubine?” When Hashirama went very still, Tobirama sighed. He kept his voice soft and tone gentle as he continued, “The Uchiha continued fighting against the Senju despite their dwindling resources. They did so even they knew that Madara could not match up against you, Anija—”

“I would protest that, but it’s absolutely true,” Madara muttered, sounding a little amused. “Still true, in fact, Rinnegan or not.”

Tobirama elbowed him lightly to get him to be quiet. “They kept fighting,” he continued, “even though there was a high chance that they might lose Izuna to my blade—”

“Honestly, if you kept working on the Hiraishin, I’m pretty sure you would’ve killed me with it,” Izuna butted in chirpily.

“Touka-nee,” Tobirama sighed, and nodded to her in thanks when he heard the smack. “Even when rationality should have dictated the Uchiha to surrender, when the hope of victory was low, they _kept fighting_.” He folded his arms into his sleeves. “There will be other clans in other countries who will do the same.”

“In other words, Hashirama, Mito,” Madara said, and there was a heavy note in his voice that had Tobirama blinking, “force and manipulation isn’t a good foundation for leadership. Not for long, because it will eventually lead to desperation, and desperate people will _always _fight back.” He let out a soft, mirthless laugh. “The two of you should know that best among all of us.”

A very stricken silence descended.

“Oh,” Mito said, very faint. Hashirama was conspicuously silent. His silhouette did not move at all.

“I’m not saying that we _can’t_ put our giant faces on the cliff,” Madara said, hooking his chin over Tobirama’s shoulder. “In fact, maybe we _should_, because Mito has already gone and sent all those letters and set out this entire narrative. But that can’t be _all_ that we’re doing.”

“Wait,” Touka cut in. “I thought the whole point here was _not_ putting our faces up on the damned cliff and _not _setting ourselves up as gods.”

Sighing, Izuna slumped back against his chair. “At this point, whether our faces are up there is less important as to what _else_ we can do to make sure, one, we don’t end up going to war against Lightning, and two, we’re not going to deal with major civil unrest some ten or twenty years – or less – down the line.”

“For that,” Madara said, “I have no fucking clue.” His hair tickled Tobirama’s neck as he turned his head. “Hikaku, any suggestions?”

“I am here,” Hikaku said, voice level, “as the record-keeper of the Uchiha, Madara-sama. Not an active contributor to the discussion.”

“Lazy fuck,” Madara said, sounding inordinately amused. 

“This is a historical moment, Madara-sama,” Hikaku said. Was that _mirth_ spiking in his chakra? “I am performing my duty.”

“Did I imply you weren’t?” Madara shot back. Before Hikaku could reply, he let out an overly-heavy sigh. “Alright, I’m pretty sure no one else has any ideas on how to fix this,” he rubbed his chin against Tobirama’s jaw, clearly thinking, “time-delayed explosive tag buried in the warehouse of gunpowder in the centre of the village.”

“That,” Hashirama finally spoke, “is one belaboured metaphor.”

“Made you smile, didn’t it?” Madara said, sounding smug. When Hashirama barked a laugh, Tobirama could feel Madara’s smile against his own skin. “So… can we table this discussion until later when _one_ of us comes up with an idea? That includes you too, Hikaku.”

“If helping to resolve this will end up with my face on a cliff, I will never say a word again,” Hikaku said, tone very dry. “I am a witness to history, Madara-sama, Hashirama-sama. Not a maker of it.”

“What he’s trying to say,” Touka smirked, clearly amused, “is that if you put _his_ face up on the cliff when he doesn’t want it there, you will get _my_ naginata up your ass.”

“Don’t worry so much, Hikaku-san,” Mito said. The crinkle of paper told Tobirama that she was once again hiding her face behind her fan. “I only spoke about six gods, not seven.”

“How reassuring,” Izuna said, thankfully cutting Hashirama off before he could say a word. “In any case, given the last, uh, half hour or so, I want to suggest something.” He paused. “Nothing to do with the faces on the cliff thing, because if we keep talking about that, the more I will have to imagine it, and I’d really rather not.”

“Get to your point, Izuna,” Madara said, impatient.

“Oh, that’s fine,” Izuna said, sweeping both arms out. “You let Hashirama and Mito talk in circles before they get to their point, but I’m not allowed to do it?”

“They do it because they’re Senju,” Madara told him flatly. “You do it because you’re an overdramatic little shit who wants to create some kind of suspense or tension.”

“In other words,” Hashirama said, the twitching of his lips audible in his voice, “he does it because he’s an Uchiha.”

“Shut up,” Izuna sniped. “What’s wrong with suspense and tension, Nii-san? It makes it easy to figure out when something is important, or when it’s not.”

“If we start talking about that, we won’t get anywhere,” Madara said. “So,” he shifted suddenly to snarl at his brother, the skin of his throat vibrating against Tobirama’s shoulder, “get to your _point_ already.” 

“Alright, fine,” Izuna said, laughing. “So, traditionally, leadership goes to a single person. One Daimyo, one clan head, one head of house, yeah? Goes all the way back to Izanagi-no-mikoto and Izanami-no-mikoto, in which a family must have only one head, and he must speak first.” His elbows thumped against the wooden platform beneath Touka’s futon as he leaned forward. “I want to suggest that, for our village, we have _two_.”

“Hah,” Hashirama said, sounding contemplative. “Why?” 

“Two, because Izanami and Izanagi must stand together and work together,” Izuna said. “In the Uchiha understanding, it makes no sense to call one more important than the other, because they’re both our eyes.”

Tobirama blinked. He had the distinct sense of Izuna’s words flying over _everyone’s_ heads. Except, perhaps, Madara’s; even Hikaku felt completely confused.

“How about you take the mythological reference out,” Touka said, voice very dry, “and explain the whole thing again.”

“Fine,” Izuna huffed. “Look at what just happened.”

“You mean you talking about Uchiha clan secrets, and expecting those born of the Senju to understand?” Madara offered, dry.

“Shut up, Nii-san,” Izuna tipped his head back, clearly rolling his eyes at his brother. “That’s part of it, but I’m mostly talking about Hashirama and Mito coming up with an idea and not realising that there’s anything wrong with it, and it took the Uchiha to point it out.”

“Tobirama was the one who explained it,” Hashirama said, voice deceptively mild.

“Yes,” Izuna admitted easily, “and Tobirama is an Uchiha, remember?” 

“Right,” Hashirama said. Tobirama could almost _hear_ the confused, rapid flutter of his lashes. “I nearly forgot.”

“That’s why you need someone else to remind you,” Izuna said. “That’s why I— or, well, not just me, but Touka, Hikaku, and me, because we were talking about it yesterday— suggest two leaders. Because we clearly need at _least_ two disparate perspectives so that shit like this doesn’t happen again.”

“Isn’t that what a Council is for?” Mito asked. “I believe that the Uchiha have the same Council of Elders as the Senju do, and their purpose is to provide a different perspective than that which is held by the clan head and his heir for the betterment of the clan.” 

“And how much are they listened to?” Izuna shot back almost immediately. “How much subterfugeand distrust and conflict does that system result in?” He brought his long tail of hair over his shoulder and started toying with the end of it. “That’s not a system that I want to bring over.”

“Yet the Council already serve the purpose of providing disparate perspectives,” Mito pointed out. “You’ll need a stronger reason than that to convince our clans, much less others’, to follow a completely disparate system.”

“Point,” Izuna nodded. “Alright, just to check: your Council of Elders is also supposed to represent different parts of the clan, right? So, there would be one representative for the blacksmiths and one for the washerwomen, and so on, and all of them report to the overall civilian representative, who will then speak to Nii-san and me about their concerns?”

“Very similar,” Mito inclined her head as well. 

“If we transfer this system to that of the village,” Izuna continued, “that means that every clan has one representative – likely the clan head – who will then report their concerns and views to the overall leader of the village.” 

“It is,” Mito said, voice very deliberate, “the system used by the Daimyo’s court.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Izuna waved a dismissive hand. “The issue here is this: _does_ the clan head listen to all of the views coming their way, and can he be _sure_ that his Council are speaking the truth?” 

“I will listen to their views,” Hashirama said, “if they are valid.”

“I shouldn’t need to spell out for you the issues that arise from _that_,” Izuna said. When deliberate silence met him, he let out a long, low sigh. “Oh, for— come _on_! The Council – or Councils, whichever – tends to have _some_ power, but as their official role is merely advisory, the clan head still has the ultimate say. Meaning that, if the Council’s wishes directly contradict that of the clan head, the clan head has the perfect right to ignore them entirely. At which point the Council will have to try harder and be more, uh, forceful in their attempts to get the clan head to listen to them.” 

“In the worst-case scenario, that can lead straight to a civil war when the clan splits into half between those supporting the Council, and those supporting the clan head,” Touka said, silhouette shuddering as she – Tobirama guessed – leaned against the wall and crossed her arms over her chest. “A more reasonable Council will resort instead to manipulation and sabotage. The _best_-case scenario is a compromise between the clan head and the Council, in which none of them get what they want.”

“That is assuming, of course, that the Council agrees with each other and moves as one entity,” Izuna said, flicking the tail of his hair in their direction. “Which they rarely do. Meaning that they would use those techniques of manipulations, aggression and sabotage against each other _as well as _the clan head.” Sighing, he slumped back against his chair. “I shouldn’t tell you how much of a disaster that can be.”

“Well,” Hashirama said, false cheer ringing loud in his voice, “all of that sounds extremely familiar.”

“But _is_ there a clan, or any system, that does not operate this way and thus have to resolve those particular issues?” Mito asked, tone empty but chakra buzzing with a mixture of caution and curiosity.

“Not as far as we know,” Izuna said. “Then again, nothing like this village had ever existed, either.”

That wasn’t true, Tobirama thought. Yamagakure existed; Tobirama could not tell and was uninterested in finding out just how similar that shinobi village in the mountains to their own, but Yamagakure _did _exist, and therefore, Izuna was wrong. 

“Just because a village itself is new,” Madara said, sounding contemplative, “doesn’t mean that the entire system of governance should be new.”

Heaving a gusty sigh, Touka shook her head. “It’s not because it’s a new village; it’s more that the new village gives us the possibility to change shit around here.” Her chin dipped down, the tip nearly touching her chest. “Or are you guys telling me that you _like_ being constantly at loggerheads with your elders, or trying to manipulate them so that they would go along with what you say, or spending more time and resources to figure out if they’re telling you the truth?”

“You know as well as I do how much I hate dealing with them, Touka,” Hashirama sighed. “If I have a choice not to, then I won’t.”

“Not possible,” Touka said, ruthless and brusque. “No matter what kind of changes you make, you _will_ have to deal with them.”

Whining deep in his throat, Hashirama slapped the back of his hand dramatically against his forehead, and fell off his chair to land on his back on the floor. Madara stretched out his leg and nudged him with a toe.

“The biggest issue with our current system,” Izuna said, clearly having decided to pretend that Hashirama didn’t exist, “is that the clan head holds ultimate authority, and thus the Council – or anyone else – must prioritise being able to convince him.”

“But the clan head still isn’t allowed to ignore the Council entirely,” Hashirama muttered from the floor.

“Definitely not,” Izuna said, “no matter how convenient that might make matters for you.”

“Because the priority is now trying to convince him, it becomes impossible for the clan head to truly be sure that what he’s hearing is the truth,” Touka continued for Izuna. “Not unless he investigates by himself.”

“Or if he relies on only a few people, whom he trusts to be on his side,” Mito mused aloud, tapping her fan rhythmically against her open palm. “Which then negates the entire purpose of the Council.” 

“Exactly,” Izuna nodded. “So, Touka and Hikaku and I were trying to come up with an alternative yesterday—”

“You got _Touka _to talk politics with you?” Hashirama yelped. “And not just politics, but _structures_ for governance?”

“He talked, I told him when he was being stupid, and Hikaku gave suggestions,” Touka said quickly, cutting Izuna off even before he could even say a word. “I’m not discussing this with any of you.”

“Yeah, let’s not,” Izuna said, sounding like he was on the verge of laughter. “In any case, what we came up with is a split system: two leaders – or even three, and the word of both have equal weight when it comes to deciding on policies for the village.”

“You mean,” Tobirama said, unable to help himself, “like you and Madara in the Uchiha?”

“Yes,” Izuna admitted easily. “And also like Hashirama and Mito in the Senju. Except, this time, the work isn’t undertaken in the background, but made official.”

“I don’t see how making it official will help,” Hashirama said, sounding doubtful.

“One,” Touka spoke up, “having _two_ official leaders make it difficult for the Council – we can’t get rid of the Council entirely, because the different clans in the village _must _have representation – to focus on trying to convince one person, because what might convince the one might deter the other.”

“Two,” Izuna picked up the thread, “whatever solutions or policies get implemented would’ve gone through two heads. I’d suggest that those two heads don’t come from the same clan, or it’ll just end up like Hashirama and Mito just now, haring off on an idea without any idea of its flaws.”

“We were not,” Mito said, placid but deadly, “_haring off_.”

“That’s the Uchiha term for ‘doing something without double-checking with someone who will disagree with it,’” Izuna shot back, voice ringing with hollow cheer. “A very clumsy name, as I’m sure you’d agree.”

“Three,” Hikaku cut in before Mito could snipe back, voice calm but steely, “having two leaders means having two pairs of eyes. They can each build up their own network of connections and trusted advisors, and cross-check with each other about what is being told to them to build a fuller picture.”

“What we’re suggesting,” Izuna said, “is a system to ensure that neither the leaders nor the council waste their time on subterfuge, and that whatever problems arise in the village are seen and discussed in full, instead of fragmented pieces.”

“Besides,” Touka continued, a trace of irony winding into her tone, “two clans founded this village. Therefore, two leaders, one from each clan. Better that than one clan forced into subordination.”

“You three seemed to have this completely thought out,” Mito observed.

“This is what Izuna-sama considers conversation suitable for a courtship,” Hikaku commented mildly.

“And you two managed to convince Touka to take part,” Hashirama said, sounding a little awed.

Tobirama had to agree: though Touka likely understood politics far better than he did, her knowledge and skills were gained due to the necessity of her still-new position as the Senju clan’s heir instead of any real enjoyment or interest. If Touka had a choice, Tobirama knew, she would rather be a general, commanding in the field and putting her naginata through bodies, than any kind of politician, seated behind a desk with her weapons hidden under her tongue and up her sleeves. 

“That actually sounds like a good idea,” Madara said, sounding thoughtful. 

“Wow,” Izuna drew out the word. “I’m glad I surprised you with my competence, Nii-san.”

“Shut up,” Madara commanded absentmindedly. 

Despite himself, Tobirama snorted. When the attention of everyone in the room turned towards him, he leaned back against Madara’s chest, idly tracing the outlines of his husband’s fingers as he thought.

“I agree with the fundamental idea of having two leaders,” he said slowly, “but I object to the equal division of power.” No, wait, that wasn’t right— “I object to having two people perform the same leadership role.” He lifted one shoulder. “It is inefficient.”

“The idea here is to ensure that the Council cannot tailor their information and arguments to one person,” Izuna pointed out, “so that they will be motivated to tell the truth.” 

“Yes,” Tobirama nodded. “I agree with that, but splitting up the role of leadership for that purpose makes no sense. Because now you’re inviting people to create discord between the two leaders so that the village will be thrown into chaos, and then power will land in the Council’s hands instead.”

Silence. “But,” Izuna protested, “they don’t have to do exactly the same thing.”

When Tobirama held up a hand, his teeth clicked together, and he fell silent.

“I know that,” Tobirama said, dredging up as much patience as he could find. He _still_ hated explaining himself, and already partly regretted speaking in the first place. “But look at it from he perspective of those clans who aren’t here: a system with two leaders, and given the same term as the title, is a system that implies that they perform exactly the same role.” Leaning forward, he balanced himself with one hand on Madara’s knee. 

“My suggestion,” Tobirama continued, “is for there is _one_ leader, and someone else will be made equal to that leader, but the title and the role must be very different.”

Silence. Finally, Madara chuckled, low and soft. “I think you’ve lost everyone, Tobirama.”

“Alright,” Tobirama nodded crisply. “I will use the role of the clan head as an analogy, then. There is and _should_ only be a single clan head, but, according to the Uchiha model, Izuna’s role as clan heir is indispensable to Madara, because Izuna had been trained to perform the roles that Madara found difficult to perform.”

“Nii-san,” Izuna said, tone a little strained, “did you _tell_ him that?”

“I don’t need to be told to figure it out,” Tobirama retorted, tart. There were only so many times that Madara needed to tell him that there was the main house had specific functions to perform in the clan before Tobirama could put the pieces together to understand that Madara and Izuna had their separate ones to fulfil. Once he had that foundational knowledge, it was easy enough for him to scan through every interaction he had witnessed between the two sons of the main house to realise that Izuna took ‘second-best to Madara’ as a point of _pride_.

He considered telling Izuna this for half a second before shaking his head; it would take too long. “If you desire for people to prioritise telling their clan head the truth without skewing their words towards what they imagine the clan head wants,” he said instead, drawing one leg up until the heel was flat on the seat of the chair, “then I suggest the second leader’s role to be that of intel.”

“You’ll have to explain that a little more, Tobirama,” Hashirama said.

“A leader is limited by what people tell him, because he cannot find out everything himself,” Tobirama stated. When he could feel from their chakra that they had accepted that point to be a fact, he continued, “Hence, give someone the role of gathering information so that that the leader could cross-check what is told him, and give that spymaster a title as grand and a rank as high as the village leader’s.”

He spread out his hands. “There is no longer a point of trying to lie, or skew facts, when you _know_ that your clan head has by their right hand someone whose very duty is to ensure that the clan head receives accurate information.”

“To raise the role of an intelligence officer to be as good as that of a clan head,” Izuna laughed under his breath. “That’s even more radical than the destruction of the Daimyo’s model of governance.” 

Tobirama could understand the reason for his incredulity: most information-gatherers were shinobi too young or too weak to be of much use on the battlefield, or to perform the expensive missions that helped to fill a clam’s coffees. These girls – and most of them were girls – were specifically trained in stealth, social skills, and specific modes of conversation that could retrieve or disseminate or manipulate information. And instead of being told to stand their ground, they were taught and trained to prioritise escape, because the information they carried was more important than their honour.

They weren’t warriors in any way. Instead, they were shinobi in the purest sense of the term. The sort that, Tobirama suspected, the Daimyo always heard stories of and used to denigrate the rest. 

“More importantly,” Madara said, his wry voice breaking through the whirl of Tobirama’s thoughts, “wasn’t I just talking about how force and manipulation did not make for good leadership?”

“That’s not the same thing,” Tobirama refuted, turning his head to try to glare at Madara through the blindfold. “Giving concrete evidence that lying and skewing facts are acts of futility before they even try is neither force nor manipulative.”

“Sounds pretty manipulative to me,” Izuna said.

“It is _not_,” Tobirama insisted. “As it is pure stupidity to assume that people are willing to react or act according to your assumptions, much less convenience, it is basic strategy to give them reasons to do so.” 

“Coercion,” Izuna over-enunciated the word, “is another form of manipulation.” 

Tobirama let out a short huff of breath. “Are you arguing for the sake of being annoying, or because you have an actual objection?” He severely doubted the latter option.

“I’m just pointing out that none of us are actually listening to Nii-san about the whole no force or manipulation thing,” Izuna said, voice trembling with the force of his mirth at every word. “Mostly because it’s a stupid idea.”

“Hey!” Madara protested immediately.

“With all due respect, Madara-sama,” Hikaku’s voice broke in, “I have to agree with Izuna-sama.”

“Didn’t you say that you’re a record-keeper who will be keeping his silence so as to not interfere in the making of history?” Madara grumbled.

“I did,” Hikaku agreed placidly, “but this is obvious enough that my statement will make no difference.” He tilted his head to the side. “Though, Madara-sama, I _do_ have something to add that might lead the discussion down a path that it would not have taken without my presence.”

Soft skin brushed over Tobirama’s head and warm breath ghosted over his hair as Madara tipped his head back into a sigh. “Tell Izuna. Or Touka, I don’t care which,” he said, sounding just a little annoyed.

“It will still be because of my presence,” Hikaku said, sounding a little apologetic now.

Hikaku was no stranger, yet Tobirama still could not claim to have any knowledge of him. But it was easy enough to put the pieces together right now: if the Uchiha defined themselves through the duties that they hold, then Hikaku literally _could not_ speak his opinion, because his role as a record-keeper demanded that he stayed as a witness who never interfered in the events that he must preserve for history.

Tobirama wondered how it was possible for him to live this way: to always be part of something, and yet consigned to the role of the silent and silenced observer. Were there no occasions in which he felt the passion that the Uchiha were so famed for, and which would have driven him to act, or interject an opinion? It surely wasn’t possible for Hikaku to know so much and yet have no opinion whatsoever about the events unfolding before his Sharingan. 

Yet he had to ask permission before he was allowed to speak, and when he did, he had to do so in such circuitous ways, 

Madara had once made an offhand comment that the Senju were all brought up as soldiers instead of children. Tobirama knew that he meant that the Senju were all forced to live as shinobi instead of human beings. Yet, now, looking at Hikaku, he wondered if the Uchiha tendency to adhere to roles didn’t rip parts of them off, too. Or, worse, heated them until they became liquid, and poured them into uniform moulds.

“Alright then,” Madara said, the sharp-crisp tone of his voice yanking Tobirama out of his thoughts. “I officially ask the head of the record-keepers, Hikaku, for his opinion on the matter of the village leadership. Furthermore, I request for his words to be built upon the foundation of the generations of history that he carries within his veins.”

Tobirama blinked.

Hikaku’s flyaway strands softened the edges of his silhouette as he bowed his head. “Thank you, Madara-sama,” he said, voice low. “If that is the case, then my official opinion is that Hashirama-sama, Mito-sama, Madara-sama, Izuna-sama, Touka-san, and besshitsu-san are all correct.” He paused. “The reason all of you can be so is that you have driven a dividing line between aspects of leadership that should not exist.”

There was a long moment of silence. Then— “Huh?” Touka said, eloquently expressing what all of them were thinking.

“Hashirama-sama and Mito-sama were accurate in their judgment that deterrence is required to prevent both war and rebellion,” Hikaku said, voice clear even as he kept his gaze lowered. “Madara-sama is correct in pointing out that force and manipulation are not the true forms of leadership.” He took a breath. 

“Furthermore, Izuna-sama and Touka-san’s observations that two leaders instead of one is a necessary change is one that historical precedents have proven to be true. Lastly, besshitsu-san’s suggestion that the second leader is that of intel has a great deal of merit.” He paused. “That is, of course, this lowly record-keeper’s opinion.”

“Yes, yes,” Madara said, impatiently waving a hand. “Get on with it.”

“Deterrence is defined by a display of force and the manipulation of the narrative surrounding that display,” Hikaku continued, “and it is necessary. However, throughout history, that has _not_ been the only strategy used; the Uchiha clan leaders who have tried to impose harsh punishments and who had twisted information have never lasted long.” Leaning back, his chin tilted upwards, and his gaze seemed to fix upon the wall above Tobirama’s head as his hands folded on his lap.

“The leaders who _did_, the leaders who were adored, are those who used force and manipulation _alongside_ offering benefits to its people.” 

“Oh,” Mito said. “Oh! I understand now!”

“Uh,” Hashirama said. “I don’t get it. What do _benefits _have to do with anything?”

“We are doing this,” Izuna intoned, “for your own good.” He sat very straight now, and Tobirama didn’t need eyes to know that he was grinning widely. “And let those ruled see and hear and _feel_ the benefits that they enjoy.”

“Members of a clan would allow for their leader to invade their privacy,” Hikaku said, not skipping a beat, “if it is shown to them that doing so will result in their own betterment. That, in essence, there is a _reason_ for the supposedly harsh measures imposed.”

Tobirama was suddenly very glad for his blindfold, because he didn’t know – and couldn’t tell – the kind of creases his brows were making at that pronouncement. It didn’t sound entirely… right.

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Hashirama said, frown clear in his tone. 

“Real, concrete benefits,” Madara said, the wry tone returning to his voice. “Not airy-fairy ‘you will see it in the future’ bullshit.”

Tobirama’s breath hitched in his throat. When Madara tightened his grip around him, his hand rose and gripped tightly onto the edge of his husband’s sleeve, tugging and tugging on the cloth without knowing why he was doing so. 

Thankfully, Madara didn’t ask. The kiss he pressed onto Tobirama’s jaw relaxed the knot growing in his chest even before it could fully form, and Tobirama choked back a sound, the feel of it bitter and thick, without knowing just why it had risen in his throat in the first place. 

All he could think of was the barred gates of the Senju compound from the vantage point of one of the tallest trees of the forest surrounding it. There was a gnawing pain in his stomach as it tried to eat itself in his hunger, and his throat was dry, and all he could think of was that this was a training exercise that was absolutely necessary for him to survive in future missions but which he had never—

Never really had to use. Not in the ways that Father had so ominously told him he eventually would, and he had spent weeks every year starving because— because Father had told him it was necessary but—

Had it ever been necessary?

“—understand now,” Izuna was saying. “The laws might be harsh,” his voice was very soft. “but the reasons for them must always be clear, and the rewards for following them must frequently be given.”

There was a low, keening sound that was awfully, painfully familiar.

“Because too much harshness,” Mito said, her voice tremulous and high, “and those who are ruled are left with only escape or destruction.”

Tobirama wrenched his body to the side and shoved his face into Madara’s neck. His husband’s arms wrapped around his shoulders immediately, one hand sinking into his hair to start to stroke and scratch at his scalp. Tobirama tried to calm his suddenly-loud and shallow breathing, tried to _breathe_ at all, but he couldn’t, not really, because—

He had never been a fool, and it had been months upon months of clues being held out to him with gentle hands.

(When Tobirama had looked upon Father’s corpse, he had suspected, but he had neither words nor logic to justify the suspicions. When Madara had stopped Hashirama from using Father’s methods to interrogate him, Tobirama had felt, but the emotions were still too insubstantial to be framed by words, and he had had none. Now…

Now he still could not explain, still had no ability to point specifically at something and say, _this _was wrong, and _those_ were the reasons why Father’s actions were unjustifiable. But he knew, _knew_ with the solidity of Shiomi’s stitches on his haori and Tsurugi’s unspoken offerings of trout and smelt in the lunches cooked for him and Izuna’s easy admission of Tobirama’s superior abilities and Madara’s unceasing patience as he tried and tried and tried to get over the _stupid_ mistake that had cost him his eyes—

He knew Father had been wrong. He knew Father had been cruel. But—

What did he know, in the end? What was the point of knowing, of framing something like _this_ into words that were known?) 

_Do you need me to come back in?_ Matatabi’s voice rang in his head. _I can feel your distress even from here._  
  
_You don’t have to. Madara’s here_, Tobirama babbled back, not entirely sure of what he was saying. _He’s here, so— _

_Nothing to do with necessity, silly cub, _Matatabi said, sounding amused. _But fine, I’ll stay here in the sun. Your Madara’s better at dealing with you like this, anyway. I have little patience for overwrought human emotions_.

Tobirama’s shoulders nearly shook with laughter. _He’s not mine_, he protested automatically. _I am his, but I am merely his concubine_.

_Trust me, cub_, Matatabi said, sounding amused now. _He is very much yours_.

“Hey,” Madara whispered, nose nudging at the edge of Tobirama’s jaw and preventing him from focusing on arguing against Matatabi. “Are you alright?”

When Tobirama tried to nod, he shook instead, and felt tears gathering at the edges of his useless eyes. “Did you—” he said, “have you always known?”

“I’m not nearly that smart,” Madara said, tugging lightly at Tobirama’s hair. “Hadn’t Touka screamed it loudly enough or Hashirama told me.” Tobirama must have moved or something, because Madara let out a breath and continued, “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t have the words. It’s so obvious to me that it’s wrong that I simply couldn’t figure out how to explain _why_ it was.”

“Oh,” Tobirama said.

“Sorry,” Madara murmured. “I should’ve said something earlier.”

“No,” Tobirama shook his head. “No, I wouldn’t have—” no, he would’ve believed Madara, because Madara had never lied to him and, most importantly, he could tell by his chakra if he was being dishonest. But… “It wouldn’t have meant anything to me to have been _told_.”

Madara let out a long, low breath. “Yeah,” he said, voice heavy but tone so gentle on Tobirama’s cheek. “That’s what I figured.”

He wasn’t crying. Maybe he would, later, but Tobirama doubted it; Father had died years ago, after all, and whatever wounds he had dealt had long scarred over. There was no use in crying over the cruelties that Father had dealt upon him, so he didn’t.

In fact, if he cried over Father’s actions, it would be what they had done to Hashirama instead of himself; because Hashirama was still making that keening sound, barely taking breaths in between, and not even Mito’s attempts at soothe were helping because he could feel from the erratic spiking of her chakra that she wasn’t calm, either.

The words to ask Madara to release him so they could both go to Hashirama were under his tongue when he heard the scrape of a chair against the floor. Turning his head, he saw Izuna’s silhouette peel away from Touka – who still had Hikaku wrapped around her, their positions awkward because Tobirama still had not completed the modifications to the seal that would return Hikaku his legs – to stride over to Hashirama’s side.

He blinked when he saw Izuna wrap his arms around Hashirama and Mito both, and couldn’t help but tilt his head to the side when Hashirama _leaned into_ him instead of freezing or pushing him away.

(His older brother might seem overly-free with his physical affections, but that was only to those he liked, and only when he initiated it. Hashirama did not _hate_ being touched; he never gave anyone else the chance to reach out for him. He was always the one to reach out first, squeezing or mock-punching a shoulder or ruffling their hair even before the other person’s hand could cross into his personal space.

Hashirama snatched control out of people’s grasp to twist their potential actions according to his own intentions and purposes. Most of the time, people didn’t notice. It had taken years before Tobirama realised what his older brother was doing.

Years before he started seeing the wounds Father had left on him.)

Tobirama had never really known a time when Hashirama had been vulnerable in front of him. He had always been _Anija_, strong and unyielding like the oaks that his mokuton preferred. But now he was shoving his face into Izuna’s shoulder, his fingers clenching tight onto Mito’s sleeve, and Mito was…

Mito was very, very still. Like she had absolutely no idea what to do.

“I should hate you, bastard Uchiha,” Touka’s voice suddenly rang out in the stilted near-silence of the room. “If not for you, we wouldn’t be dealing with shit like this.”

Hikaku let out a low laugh, mirthless but warm somehow. “You don’t mean that, Touka-san,” he said.

“It would’ve been perfectly fine if I had just fucking died without actually _understanding_ any of this shit,” Touka snarled. “Now I get it, I fucking _get it_, and I have to deal with it— how the fuck am I supposed to deal with it, Hikaku-san? He’s fucking _dead_ but the rot’s sunk all the way into the clan so it’s impossible to rip out. Not without destroying the clan.”

Hashirama let out a high-pitched shriek. It took Tobirama a second to recognise that it was supposed to be a _laugh_. “Let it be destroyed,” he said. “Let the Uchiha burn it down. Let it _die_.”

What, Tobirama thought dully, should be done when the clan head himself declared treason?

“Yeah, like that’s gonna work,” Touka barked a laugh. “Order every Senju except for us three back into the old compound and have the Uchiha burn them all with Amaterasu. Great way to conclude the ‘build a village together’ treaty between the two clans.” 

“I actually still have no idea what the actual fuck happened to you Senju,” Izuna tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling, “so I’ll just say that I’ll only agree to being a murder weapon if it’s for a good reason.”

“Oh, the reasons are good, Izuna,” Madara said, fingers never pausing in their strokes through Tobirama’s hair. “They’re really good.”

“Say, Izuna-sama, Madara-sama,” Hikaku said, voice nearly _cheerful_, “if I gained the Mangekyou due to Touka-san, does it mean that I’m allowed to use its powers to fulfil Touka-san’s desires, no matter what they might be?”

“No,” Madara said. Then Tobirama could feel his attention shift away from him to his clansman. “Hikaku,” he pronounced slowly, “do you even have any idea what’s going on here?”

“I might not have been allowed into the conversation between you and Hashirama-sama, Madara,” Hikaku said, “but I have seen enough from besshitsu-san to make my own conclusions about the ways of the Senju.”

“Me?” Tobirama blurted out, surprised.

“A man who would offer himself to be a symbol of subjugation,” Hikaku said softly, “a man who could unflinchingly volunteer to be paraded through the streets in stocks, thus ensuring his own humiliation… Such a man knows not his own worth.” 

What did that mean? What _could_ it mean? Tobirama had only been suggesting what made the most logical sense to him! 

“And do not forget, Madara-sama, Izuna-sama: though I was too young to be part of any of the discussions that resulted in the Uchiha targeting Senju children,” he paused, letting out a low breath, “my predecessors were not, and I have their memories.”

“Oh,” Tobirama said again. “You knew—”

“The elders and the Uchiha shinobi of the previous generation,” Hikaku said, voice calm, “resisted against peace because they were used to fighting against Senju Butsuma.” A very deliberate pause. “Who, if I might be blunt, was a monster.”

“You could tell it was wrong,” Hashirama said. “_You _could tell—”

“Ask any Uchiha shinobi who fought against your father, Hashirama-sama,” Hikaku interrupted, voice gentle but firm. “All of them could tell. Why do you think they stooped low enough to collude with the Hagoromo to kill children? They wanted him to _stop killing ours._”

Tobirama couldn’t breathe. He forced his lungs to keep working.

“Gods above,” Mito let out a shrill, shaky laugh. “You knew, the _Uchiha_ knew, and you all acknowledged it, you looked at him and called him what he _was_ and you tried to stop him. You did all that, you _did all that_ when you weren’t even— you were the _enemy_ and you—”

“None of the Senju stopped him,” Hashirama cut in, his voice very flat. “I don’t think any of them would ever admit that he was a monster.”

“They wouldn’t,” Touka said, a hysterical note entering her voice. “I’ve heard some of them talking in my earshot – not yours, Mito, never yours – that they miss the days when Butsuma ruled the clan.”

Hashirama made that high, inhuman sound again. Tobirama was halfway into tearing himself out of Madara’s embrace to go to his brother when he heard a dull, fleshy _thud_, and froze. Did Izuna just— had he just smacked Hashirama at the back of his head like he was a recalcitrant child?

“If you try to hit yourself in any way,” Izuna’s low, threatening voice rang out, “I’m never going to hug you again.” A sudden, heavy silence, and then Izuna sighed. “Fuck’s sake, you’re worse than Nii-san. Come here.”

“Is it just me,” Madara whispered into his ear, “or have I been replaced as Hashirama’s handler?” 

Tobirama snorted. “When were you Anija’s handler?” he asked, genuinely puzzled. “That role has always been Aneue’s, and now Izuna has them both.”

He could see their silhouettes: Izuna had one arm over Mito’s shoulders, half-strangling her as he practically forced her to lean her weight on him, while his other hand was busy wrestling Hashirama onto his lap. Given that Izuna was skinny and rather short like most Uchiha – the broadness of Madara’s shoulders was an anomaly, though Tobirama would likely end up taller than him once he was at his full height – the image was hilarious. Or, well, it should be; Tobirama didn’t particularly feel the urge to laugh.

Madara huffed, “True enough,” before he let out an explosive sigh. “I notice that you’re not disagreeing that Hashirama needs a handler.” 

“Why should I?” Tobirama cocked his head to the side. “Are you projecting your own inability to see Anija’s flaws and weaknesses on me, Madara?”

“Maybe,” Madara chuckled softly, warm breath gliding over the nape of Tobirama’s neck. Then, with his hand starting to stroke over Tobirama’s bicep, he asked, “Honestly, Tobirama, are _you_ alright?” 

Was he? Tobirama couldn’t exactly answer, because— “I’m numb,” he admitted, shrugging a little.

Letting out a soft sigh, Madara turned his head and kissed Tobirama’s temple, long and lingering. “Yeah,” he said. “What’s the point of understanding, if there’s nothing that can be done about it?” He paused. “Wait, there is _something_ we can do about it.”

That last sentence was said almost directly into Tobirama’s ear, and loud enough that Tobirama could ‘see’ Hashirama’s head jerking up even as he winced.

“There is?” Hashirama blurted out.

“Yes,” Madara said. His knuckles started running up and down Tobirama’s spine, movements jerky, as he started talking. “Hashirama, do you remember when we talked about you wanting to use this village to kill off your clan?”

“I fucking _knew it_,” Touka whispered viciously, and was gently hushed by Hikaku.

“Like Touka said, two leaders, because the village started off with two clans,” Madara said. “If we focus on the idea of _cooperation_ and _teamwork_ for the improvement of everyone’s lives – not just that of the Senju and the Uchiha, but everyone who joins – then it’s the perfect excuse for you to erase whatever of the Senju that you don’t like.” He paused. “But—”

“But I’ll have to take the leadership,” Hashirama said wearily. “It’s the best justification for making the Senju stop, or at least change, the Will of Fire.”

Tobirama tilted his head to the side. _Change_ the Will of Fire? What could that mean? How could the Will of Fire, something that had been followed and passed down for generations or maybe even centuries, be changed in any way? 

“It’ll be a good symbol to give to the Senju elders about the dominance of the Senju over the Uchiha,” Mito murmured. “Something I can use to shut them up, at least.” 

“And we still need to do that because,” Touka said, a sardonic note creeping into her voice, “we fucking told them that this village is the Senju’s chance at immortality. If they don’t get placated somehow, we’re going to have a Senju-exclusive rebellion.”

Another blink. They had _not_ informed him about that part. Granted, those discussions likely took place after he was stripped of his status as the Senju’s clan heir in preparation for becoming Madara’s concubine, but literally no one had mentioned it—

“Within the Uchiha, the elders go behind the clan head’s back to do what he would disagree with in order to fulfil their purposes,” Izuna said, voice thick with barely-suppressed laughter. “In the Senju, the clan matriarch and clan heir blatantly _lie_ to their elders.”

“Please remind me that plotting to kill all of my own clan is a bad idea, Tobirama,” Hashirama sighed out.

“It’s not a good idea to try to massacre your own clan, Anija,” Tobirama parroted obediently. “Most of them are guilty of little except for inaction, and that’s not exactly deserving of death.”

“I would argue otherwise.” Mito made a sound like she was blowing air through gritted teeth. “But I’d rather focus on how to get rid of that tendency for passivity by changing the clan philosophy.” A dull _thud_ rang out; her fan smacking against her palm. “Which you will have a chance to force them to change, Hashirama, once you become the village’s leader.”

“Am I allow to shove this job to someone else?” Hashirama asked, voice very dry.

“No,” Tobirama shook his head. “The Senju will accept the changes coming from you, Anija, and no one else.” He folded his hands on top of his lap. “Especially not me, so don’t even think about pushing this onto me.”

“Again,” Izuna said, voice very loud, “Tobirama is an _Uchiha_.”

What was with Izuna’s absolute insistence that Tobirama belonged to the Uchiha instead of the Senju? Tobirama had thought that _Madara _was ridiculous with his – admittedly rather mild – possessiveness in the form of dressing Tobirama in nothing but Uchiha-made clothing and insistence on clinging onto him whenever they were close enough to breathe the same air. Izuna didn’t even have the excuse of being his husband!

Something to consider another time.

“Yes, yes,” Hashirama was saying, sounding impatient. “Anyway, if I’m going to have to be the first main leader, I want Izuna to take the spymaster position.”

“What?” Izuna yelped immediately. “Why me? Why not Nii-san?”

“You want _me_ to be a spymaster,” Madara said, sounding both amused and incredulous. “Izuna, did you smack yourself so hard on the head that you’ve entirely lost your intelligence? And your memory?”

Silence. Tobirama bit down on a lip to stifle his own chortles. Given that Izuna had managed to find Yamagakure without mokuton – by, Tobirama assumed from his stories, ingratiating himself with the villagers around the area and retrieving information from them – while Madara had needed the mokuton _and_ decided that the best course of action was to set the entire place on fire…

It was obvious which brother should shoulder the spymaster role.

“I’d really rather just lie around doing nothing,” Izuna lied through his teeth. 

“Hashirama’s not planning to stay the main leader for long,” Mito interrupted. Tobirama wondered if Hashirama had told her that, or if they had shared a look and then she knew, or if it was so obvious to her that she found it necessary to inform everyone else. “Which means that _someone _needs to replace him as the main leader.”

“And it can’t be someone who already holds the position of the second leader,” Madara picked up the thread. “Not only does that imply that the second leader is actually a deputy, just waiting to be groomed into the position, it also raises the very high possibility of people trying to kill the main leader so that the second leader can come into power.” 

“Including the second leader aiming for the main one,” Izuna heaved a sigh.

“Exactly,” Madara nodded.

“Uh, Madara,” Hashirama said, “can I possibly convince you to just take the damned leadership in the first place?”

“You think _I _can convince _your_ clan to change?” The arch of Madara’s brow was audible through his tone. “Hashirama. You _have_ to be Shodaime. The most I can do to help is to serve as your deputy during your time in the position, and take over the moment you have settled the Senju.” 

“Are we really not even considering the other clans’ opinions?” Izuna asked.

“We gave them a chance to join the village early and therefore be entitled to an opinion,” Mito replied, tart. “They squandered it, so now they don’t get to have an opinion.”

“You are _really_ pissed about that,” Izuna laughed. 

Mito’s chakra indicated that she was about to speak, but before she could, Touka barked a laugh. “Izuna, you should start protesting against being the second leader to Hashirama’s main one if you don’t want the position,” she said.

“I don’t _want_ it but there’s no one else better for it,” Izuna spread his hands out and shrugged. “If we’re all agreed on the idea that the second leader’s role is being, essentially, handling information, then _who _among us is better than me at it?” He paused. “Among the Uchiha, of course, because I think Mito-san might be better at me.” 

Humming under her breath, Mito shifted slightly so she was sitting up with her shoulder brushing Izuna’s instead of practically over half-fallen over him. “If Hashirama will eventually give up his position to Madara,” she said slowly, “then Izuna—”

“Yeah,” Izuna said, grin audible in his voice. “Good luck being Nii-san’s partner, Mito-san.”

As Mito let out a series of soft giggles, Madara heaved out an exaggeratedly-heavy sigh. “Fuck,” he said, and sounded far too amused for the swear to be taken as a sign of anger.

Then Touka was laughing again. “I just realised something,” she said, leaning forward with both arms on Hikaku’s shoulders – he was sitting in front of her much in the same way Tobirama was with Madara. “The position of a clan head, or a village’s leader, is modelled after the Daimyo himself, yeah?”

“Yes,” Mito nodded.

“And this information gathering and disseminating position that Izuna and Mito are going to take on… that’s basically a shinobi, right?”

Even as Hashirama said, “Yes,” clearly confused, Madara was starting to laugh against his shoulder.

“The Daimyo is going to have a fit,” Touka said, gleeful, “because we are overthrowing his leadership model of one ruler per village. And then he’s going to have an all-out seizure when he realises that the _second_ leader is unabashedly a shinobi, which implies that—”

“A shinobi is as good as a Daimyo,” Izuna burst out laughing. “And he can’t do shit against us because he’s likely scared piss-less by the rumours Mito-san had spread about us being gods

“Honestly,” Hashirama gave a theatrical sniff, “he should just be glad that we’re not bothering to _overthrow _him.”

“We still need the Daimyo’s support, husband,” Mito pointed out. “Do you think we can still keep his favour if we take up his suggestion for the name of our leader?” 

“It’ll mean as much as Hashirama being officially the Shodaime even though all of the policies are come up by the seven of us,” Madara pointed out.

“Which means we should,” Hashirama said, laughing. “That’s fine. I like ‘Hokage’ as a title anyway.”

“You know he’s trying to imply that since he is the symbol of fire,” Izuna interrupted, “being the ‘Fire Shadow’ means that you’re supposed to be his shadow? Like a kagemusha, obedient to his every whim and throwing your entire life into his protection?”

Rolling over until he was sprawled on the floor, Hashirama gave an expansive shrug that showed how little he actually cared about the Daimyo’s opinions and intentions. 

Izuna snorted. “Yeah, I thought so,” he said, and crossed his arms. “If that’s the case, I suggest ‘Kemuri’ for my own title.”

Tobirama blinked. _Smoke_? He could see how that could be linked to fire, and therefore placate the Daimyo, but why—

“A shadow stands out: it cannot be touched, but it can be seen,” Mito said, sounding thoughtful. “In fact, it _must_ be seen; if it is not seen, then it does not and cannot exist.”

“Because the main leader _must_ always be seen,” Izuna added, nodding. “If Hashirama is taking the position so that he can lead the Senju towards change, then he is doing so as a role model. Meaning that his leadership is one by example, with eyes everywhere fixed on him.”

“I am,” Hashirama announced, apropos to nothing, “_definitely _not looking forward to that.”

“Don’t worry, no one will be allowed touch you,” Izuna said, sounding amused. “Because you can’t touch shadows.”

“Smoke is the direct and complementary opposite,” Mito said, interrupting her husband before he could argue against Izuna or, more likely, ask him what he meant. “It is simultaneously visible and invisible, and hence it cannot be _followed_. And, given that we are in the Land of _Fire_, smoke is everywhere, and it is nowhere at the same time.”

“Like a spy,” Izuna nodded, folding his arms across his chest. “Like a shinobi.”

“Congratulations, Izuna,” Madara drawled. “You’ve named your own position.” 

“Eh, it’s only mine for a little while,” Izuna shrugged. “Don’t take too long to fix the Senju bullshit, Hashirama.”

“I’d do my best,” Hashirama said, sounding amused. “But, uh, can we actually talk about the reason why we’re all gathered here?”

There was a momentary silence as, Tobirama suspected, everyone tried to remember what _that _was supposed to be.

“We need a name for the village,” Hashirama reminded, speaking slowly, “because we need at _least_ that when the Akimichi and their vassal clans come down in two days.”

Ah, right. Tobirama had forgotten. And, judging by the mild surprise he could feel around him, so had everyone else.

“Tobirama was thinking ‘Konohana,’” Madara said. “After Matatabi.” The surprise shifted into confusion, and Madara laughed. “Matatabi smells like volcanoes, and Konohanasakuya-hime is the goddess of volcanoes.

_Is that true, cub?_ Matatabi said suddenly. When Tobirama made a mental noise in affirmative, she laughed. _I’m flattered, but I’d rather not. It’d be a good way to rub into Ani’s face that he might be born first, but he rode on _my_ tails into this village, but… no._

_Why?_ Tobirama couldn’t help but ask.

_I don’t need things named after me to ensure my immortality, cub,_ Matatabi said, chuckling. _I already am immortal_.

“—reference of a reference,” Izuna was saying, voice very dry. “That’s perfectly easy to explain to people.”

“Konoha,” Tobirama put forth. “That’s Madara’s idea; after the forests that surround our walls.”

“Leaf,” Touka said, flat. “You want to name our village _Leaf_?”

“Actually,” Hashirama said, sitting up so suddenly that Izuna had to rear back so his chin didn’t smash against Hashirama’s very hard skull. “How about Konohagakure no Sato?”

That sounded very familiar. Where had Tobirama heard something like that before—

“You want to name our village after _Yamagakure_?” Madara said, voice rising from his incredulity.

“Not name _after_, but _following the naming scheme_,” Hashirama corrected. “Besides, it’s fitting name for a place full of shinobi: a village hidden in the leaves.”

“Why the _fuck_ would you want to the name of _our _village to sound anything like Yamagakure?” Madara demanded. “Have you forgotten what they have done? Have you forgotten what we did to them?”

“Of course not,” Hashirama said, a frown twining into his tone. “That’s _exactly _why I want to use Konohagakure no Sato.” He paused. “Actually, Anything-gakure no Sato would do well enough; I _insist_ that we follow the naming scheme.”

“Are you,” Madara was starting to grit his teeth, “going to tell why _why_?”

“So impatient,” Hashirama teased, and immediately held up his hands when Madara made – Tobirama guessed – either a rude gesture or a hand seal. “Firstly, if making nice along with scaring the shit out of people is the way to go, then we can frame following the naming scheme as a tribute to Yamagakure. Not an apology but,” he paused, “an acknowledgement of our actions and the damage that we have done. Especially since it’s likely the Lightning Daimyo who came up with the name in the first place.”

“You want to use our village’s name to _honour _the Lightning Daimyo,” Madara said. “And all of those who died because of us.” 

“Pretty much,” Hashirama shrugged. “We _are_ trying to stop them from waging war with us, after all.”

Madara hummed contemplatively for a few moments. “We can tell them that we honour them,” he said finally, “but they’ll likely take it as a reminder about what we have done.” He let out a long breath, a few strands of hair tickling Tobirama’s nose as he shook his head. “It’s going to be salt on their wounds, because— look, we’re planning our village to last, right?”

Tobirama nodded, and Madara’s nails scraped lightly over his scalp before he continued, “If it does, it means that all that’s left of Yamagakure is the naming scheme, which is only remembered because we chose to honour them.”

“Which means that they’re now in debt to us for giving them a place in history,” Izuna said, shaking his head. “Nii-san, Hashirama was _trying _to make nice, and now you’ve made this whole thing something only bastards would think to do.”

“I don’t regret destroying that village,” Madara reminded. “Having bastard reasons for naming our village after the fuckers who kidnapped Tobirama and imprisoned Matatabi is the only reason why I would agree to it.”

“Exactly as he said,” Hashirama shrugged. “But are we all agreed with the name?” 

“At this point,” Touka said, voice a little muffled as she – Tobirama guessed – rubbed her hand over her own face, “I just want us to have a name, _any_ name, so that all of you can get out and I can go back to sleep.”

“Well, that’s settled then,” Hashirama clapped his hands. “We have a—”

“If I may say something?” Hikaku’s voice rang out so suddenly and so loud that Hashirama’s teeth clicked together. When all eyes turned towards him, he kept his head up, “I find it a little disturbing that we have decided on names, such extremely symbolic and meaningful things, in but one afternoon, and for reasons that are so rooted to this moment in time.” 

Madara opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Mito sighed. 

“It matters little to me what the village’s name is,” she said. She had shifted until her knees were drawn up to her chest with her wrists resting on top of them. “As long as it has a name that I can use instead of ‘the village,’ that’s fine with me.”

“Because you can change its meaning and significance however you like,” Touka pointed out, leaning back until she was half-sprawled upon her futon. She didn’t seem to be exaggerating about being tired.

“‘Konoha’ can mean ‘Leaf,’” Touka continued, “or it can be a shortened version of “Konohanasakuya-hime.’ ‘-gakure’ can be a tribute to Yamagakure, a reminder of Madara and Hashirama’s power, or even just a literal descriptor because of the forests that surround us.” She let out a small laugh.

“We Senju don’t have record-keepers, Hikaku-san,” she noted wryly. “The meanings of our symbols have changed through the generations until – I’m sure – no one is sure what our first ancestor meant when we spoke of ‘the Will of Fire.’”

Oh. So _that _was why it could be changed. Now Tobirama wondered what the Will of Fire had been when it was first envisioned by their first ancestor, the man whose blood gave the clan the potential for the mokuton but whose name had been long lost to history. 

“That…” Hikaku seemed at a loss for words. “Is that not dangerous?” 

“There is danger, too,” Madara murmured, nearly into Tobirama’s ear, “in staying unchanged throughout the centuries, unwilling to adapt no matter how much the battlefields have changed.”

Hikaku’s chakra spiked with surprise – Tobirama wondered if he would witness those dark eyes widening if he still had eyes that could see – before he settled into contemplation. “Yes,” he said finally. “I see your point, Madara-sama.”

Silence descended in the room for a couple of moments before Hashirama clapped his hands together. 

“Konohagakure no Sato,” Hashirama said. “Ruled by the Hokage, who stands ahead as the example to follow, and by the Kemuri, who guides through whispers in the air. The village shall be a symbol of two clans putting aside their differences to build something new together; it shall usher in a new way of living that entwines the best of parts of both clans to spearhead the extinction of war.” Even without sight, Tobirama knew that he had smiled.

“Hey, Madara?”

“Mm?”

“Is this everything we dreamed about as children?”

As Madara threw his head back, his wild hair slipped over Tobirama’s shoulders, and the strands caressed his neck. “It is far more, Hashirama,” he said, “and you know it.”

“Yeah,” Hashirama said, voice very soft. “There were only two of us, then, and there are seven of us now.”

“Six, Hashirama-sama,” Hikaku corrected, humour spiking in his chakra in a way that made Tobirama suspect that his lips were twitching. “I am but a mere record-keeper who has contributed nothing.”

“Touka,” Izuna sighed.

She had already started sitting up the moment Hikaku spoke. Now, as Tobirama watched, one of her hands tilted Hikaku’s head to the side. Their noses brushed against each other before two silhouettes joined into one.

“Far greater than our dreams of childhood, Tobirama,” Madara murmured into his ear, “and it’s all due to you and Izuna.”

Then, before Tobirama could protest, Madara took his chin between thumb and forefinger, tipped his head up and sideways, and slid their lips together.

It was the first time Madara had kissed him on the lips when they weren’t alone. Tobirama tensed, waiting for shouts or catcalls, or any kind of teasing.

But there was only a quiet, “Gross,” from Izuna that seemed more out of habit than anything else. Tobirama tried to pull away, trying to figure out the lack of reaction, but Madara’s tongue nudged between his teeth, and Tobirama decided—

He didn’t need to know, because he was—

Safe here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was meant to be the very end of the fic, but it’s not, because there are still quite a few loose ends to tie up and at least one more theme to hit its final denouement. But one of the major themes throughout this fic is the exploration of the relationship between culture and trauma. I hope that, with this chapter, the development is something that rings true to those who have experienced it, and that it helps those who haven’t gain at least a little understanding.
> 
> The structure of the village leadership has been planned since the start, and I’ve been nudging character relationships to the point where the conclusions they come to here are not only unsurprising, but _logical_. And, well— Madara and Mito have a lot longer to develop because, like Hashirama and Izuna themselves have said, Shodaime will be temporary. Nidaime – Madara and Mito – are the ones who will set into stone the village’s philosophy and identity. 
> 
> I think I stole the idea of the Hokage Monument being a ‘Founders’ Monument’ from fanon, but for the life of me I could not find the precise fic where I first saw it. The _reasons _given for the Monument’s existence, however, are entirely my own. Or, well, my attempts to make sense of Kishimoto’s worldbuilding, as per usual.


	26. the affectations of love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** The first couple of pages or so are _purely _exposition about sealing theory that references a lot of Taoist and Buddhist philosophy that’s also mixed with Japanese mythology. I try to make it as clear as I can while I try to make sense of what Kishimoto uses for his designs of fuinjutsu, but it might still be unclear at some point. If it is, please look up the actual [Eight Trigrams](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bagua) on Wikipedia.

Sealing theory could be divided into three sections: storage, the act of pulling an object or a person or energy itself into something separate and different from it to facilitate better transport; summoning, in which sealing ink and symbols acted as a conduit into or through a separate space where the object resided; and physical adjustment, whereby the ink and symbols were used to change the nature of the space they inhabited, such as the creation of barriers or the distortion of light. All of them made use of the eight elements arising from the Eight Trigrams – sky, wind, water, mountain, earth, lightning, fire, and lake - organised in either the precepts of Earlier Heaven or Later Heaven. 

Physical-adjustment seals were the simplest out of the three: as they concerned themselves only with physical space, the theories that governed barrier-making used _only_ the precepts of Earlier Heaven. Easier, too, because the precepts of Earlier Heaven followed those of tradition and ‘common sense.’

One of the first physical-adjustment seals Mito had learned about was that which encircled Uzushio: sky and earth linked together to invoke the very bridge that Izanami and Izanagi had stood upon while they stirred land into existence and therefore to create the foundation upon which they could encourage the island’s ground to root firmer into the ocean floor. Upon that foundation the seal had overlaid water-fire to urge all disturbances to be akin to underwater volcanoes, buried deep enough in the ocean that their effects could barely be felt by the island. Then, the final layer: the seal stitching the unmoving mountain and still lake together so that they could join forces and protect Uzushio against the raging lightning and wailing wind of thunderstorms. 

Between the theories of storage and those of summoning, the former were far more difficult. Summoning called upon the precepts of Later Heaven – representing the near-alien rules of summoning realms – to send out a message, or reach out a hand, to the other side. The most common of all summoning seals, the Kuchiyose, linked water-fire, wind-sky, lightning-lake, and mountain-earth to a centre point: the summoner’s blood. With the blood as an anchor to the mortal realm, the seal reached through the barrier between dimensions – mortal water to summons’ fire, human wind as guide for the summons’ sky – to call upon the animal that the summoner had formed a contract with.

Mito had learned its theory by the time she was eight, and by ten, was experimenting with how to improve it even further. She had never really reached anywhere, but it had been a rather interesting exercise that helped her fully understand the difference between Earlier Heaven and Later Heaven.

Storage seals were the most common, and yet most complex. Most of them contained aspects of both Earlier Heaven and Later Heaven mixed together. The most basic of storage seals – those made in large amounts to be given to the Uchiha or sold off elsewhere – were made of the links between wind-lightning and wind-heaven. The Iron Armour Seal – sold by her grandfather to the previous Lightning Daimyo – embedded the links of both mountain-lake and mountain-earth within the ink used to draw the kanji of ‘steel’. 

Both Earlier Heaven and Later Heaven were used: when a single element was linked to two others, it formed a separate pocket of space that was immediately connected to the object that carried the sealing ink. Within that space created, objects were stored. Breaking the seal meant snapping one or both of those links, resulting in the pocket of space no longer existing and all items being dropped upon the seal-breaker’s head.

The strongest storage seal of the Uzumaki – originally created to store the entire island on the off-chance that a strong enough tsunami threatened to drown it entirely – was the Eight Trigrams seal. It consisted of two Four Symbols seals were folded together, double links for every single element were created, immediately resulting in a massive pocket of space that could fit an island. It was the only existing seal that could, Mito mused, fit a bijuu.

Of course, it wouldn’t have taken her almost two entire weeks if she had simply gone with the Eight Trigrams Seal. She had figured _that_ one out before she had passed her eleventh year. No, the issue here was that…

Physical-adjustment seals enclosed things within ink and excluded everything else. Storage seals pulled objects through that ink and cut them off from the rest of the world. In other words, those two seals would always _seal_: to cut off, to catch, to _trap_. Seals, by _definition_, built cages and houses; things with four walls that might have windows but never doors. If she had used them on Matatabi, she would have been forever trapped inside Tobirama’s body, never having any freedom because storage and physical-adjustment seals disallowed freedom by their very nature. 

They had never been made to trap living things, after all. 

But summoning seals pulled from one space to another, and ensured that the summoned animal was bound and contracted to the summoner. The workings of the Kuchiyose could be summarised as using the summoner’s chakra to carve out a pathway in between two realms, one steady enough to allow the summoned animal – or, on very rare occasions – the summoner himself – to pass through.

What she had needed was a storage seal – one that could fit Matatabi inside Tobirama – mixed with aspects of a summoning seal – to allow her to manifest outside him whenever she desired. However, the two operated on very different – some might argue , _opposing _– methods of using the original Eight Trigrams.

There was a long silence after she had finished. Mito sipped at her tea.

“When I asked you why the hell did you take so damned long to come up with what Matatabi wanted,” Kurama said, head resting on his paws, “I did not expect a fucking lecture about seals.”

“I can feel everything Mito just said,” one of Hashirama’s hands opened and closed like the beak of a yapping crow as he made it skim slowly over his own head. “Like that.” 

“You lost me when you started talking about the Eight Trigrams,” Kurama said, red eye almost baleful as he peered up meet Mito’s gaze. 

“Thank you for having the patience to wait for me to finish,” Mito said, lips twitching slightly to the side. “But I thought you’d like to know exactly what it is that is keeping your sister here. Aside from her own wishes, of course.”

“Why do you think I’d care anything about what happened to her?” Kurama snorted, ears immediately flattening on top of his head. “She’s made her choices; if they lead her to ruin, then that’s her own doing. I have nothing to do with it.”

Mito tactfully did not point out that he had spent quite a long time talking about the effects that Matatabi’s sealing might have on the other bijuu, which had definitely implied that Kurama was concerned about his siblings’ welfare. If only a little bit. She slid her eyes to the side.

Hashirama caught her hint immediately, and let out a theatrically-loud sight. “I wasn’t kidding about having grasped none of it, Mito,” he said, voice pitched high in a whine as he draped an arm around her shoulders. “Can I get the baby’s version?”

Eyes slipping back shut, Kurama snorted. “Baby sounds like a pretty good descriptor for you,” he said. “Are you really some sort of God among the users of ninjutsu?”

There it was again, that term. Kurama and Matatabi both used it, and Mito suspected that if she spoke to any of the other bijuu, they would use the same thing. She would dismiss it as one of the quirks that belonged to the huge chakra beasts – of which there were many, some of which shared between the two but most of them individual to either Matatabi or Kurama – if not for Tobirama having noted it as well.

“God is just a descriptor for power,” Hashirama was saying, one eye cracked open and fixed upon Kurama. “It has nothing to do with maturity or intelligence at all.”

“If that’s what you users of ninjutsu think,” Kurama said, “it explains a great deal.”

Setting down her cup, Mito considered the great fox for a long moment. “If I explain the seal to you clearly and in a way that you can understand in full,” she said slowly, “will you be amenable to telling me the difference between ‘user of ninjutsu’ and ‘shinobi’?”

“Say whatever you like,” Kurama mumbled, sounding like he was half-asleep. “But I listen to only what interests me, and answer only when I feel the urge to speak.” 

Biting back a sigh, Mito’s eyes met her husband’s. What she saw there had her quickly stifling a grimace– Kurama might have his eyes closed, but she would not put it past him to be a sensor sensitive enough to guess at thoughts from chakra alone – because… 

Hashirama might be the one who had invited Matatabi to the village – to _Konoha_, Mito corrected herself – but he had not included Kurama within that invitation. It had been Mito who had won that fox over; who had invited him to rest here because she had thought, greedily, that if one bijuu would make them powerful and feared, then two would render them nigh invincible. 

And it had looked to succeed. Kurama had lingered in their forests, never attacking them and also never leaving. He had tolerated Mito’s visits and answered her questions and, when Matatabi visited alongside Tobirama, had seemed interested in his sister’s life after she was bound to a human. He had been remarkably uninterested in Tobirama himself, ignoring him in favour of speaking to Matatabi and Mito, and Mito had dismissed it as his usual recalcitrance.

(She had, perhaps, gloated silently that he preferred _her_ over Tobirama. Not because of anything her little brother had done, of course, but simply that— he already had one bijuu to call his own, and Matatabi seemed as overprotective and affectionate as Madara during his worst moments, and… 

Mito wanted nothing to do with Madara’s— well, frankly speaking, _horrifyingly embarrassing_ displays, of course; she admired Tobirama for his ability to tolerate them, and wondered sometimes if her little brother had somehow lost his mind when he had moved into the Uchiha compound. No, it wasn’t that she wanted anything like what Tobirama had with Madara and Matatabi, only…

Only nothing, Mito told herself firmly. This was a foolish and useless train of thought, and she had no excuse for distracting herself like this.

Especially since she wasn’t thirteen years old anymore.)

Had she, in her arrogance, led the village down to the path of destruction even before its potential could fully bloom? Had she overestimated her abilities so much that she had ended up inviting not a potential asset, but the weapon of their destruction, right to their doorstep?

Within her sleeves, her nails bit at her palms. No, she decided. At the very worst, she still had the original Eight Trigrams Seal at her fingertips, and Hashirama would always have his mokuton.

“Mito?” Hashirama’s voice nudged her out of her thoughts. “Will you explain your seal to me, please?”

Her husband’s eyes were wide and guileless to all those who did not knew him well. However, Mito claimed the spot of the one person in the world who truly _understood _Senju Hashirama, so she ducked her head and dug her nails into her wrist to stop herself from reaching out to him for the boon that he had given her. For the faith he placed so freely in her.

“Alright,” she said. Another glance to Kurama confirmed that the fox still had his eyes closed. “The essence of all that I said just now is this: summoning seals require Later Heaven, and it creates a bridge between the two worlds, while storage seals require Earlier Heaven and Later Heaven to overlap each other in order to create a space.”

There was a crease between Hashirama’s brows even as he nodded. Mito knew that he understood far, far more than he would admit to anyone, even her, but she reached out to slide her hand over his hair, as if to soothe him about his prolonged incomprehension, even as she continued.

“What I need, then, is a storage space, and a pathway out of the storage space that is necessary for the _person_,” she couldn’t help but emphasise that would a little, “housed within. Hence, I decided to erase the dividing line in between the two types of seals.”

Withdrawing her hand back, she started to draw in the air. “First, I need the space, and I used sky-earth, sky-wind and earth-mountain.” Not only because they sounded the most impressive, but because those three linkages were the strongest of both Earlier and Later Heaven. “After that, I formed the other links according to Later Heaven alone: water-fire, and lightning-lake.” 

“Doesn’t quite sound balanced.” That was Kurama’s voice. Mito blinked, hand freezing in mid-air, as one of the fox’s red eyes fixed upon her. “The Eight Trigrams have space for four pairs, but you’re speaking of using five.” 

Mito _grinned_; Tobirama had caught that, too. “Sky-earth sits in the centre: sky the upward curve, and earth the downward one,” she said, barely resisting the urge to lean forward in her excitement. “Sky-wind and earth-mountain are at, respectively, north-south and east-west, with water-fire and lightning-sky take the non-cardinal directions.”

“Interesting placements,” Kurama murmured. “Given that south is sky in Earlier Heaven, and fire in Later Heaven.” His other eye opened. “None of the positions you have assigned your seals match those in the precepts.”

Breath hitching in her throat, Mito forced her hands to stop shaking. “Do you know something about sealing theory, Kurama-sama?”

“Not by far,” Kurama said, yawning wide enough to show off his fangs. “But I know something of the Eight Trigrams, alright.” Then, before Mito could ask further, his eyes flicked forward like a waving hand. “So, you placed Earlier Heaven in the centre while Later Heaven surrounds it with the placements utterly mixed up. What else?”

Mito could start talking about exactly why she had placed each element in which direction, but she suspected that Kurama would not care about _that_ depth of sealing theory. She said, instead, “Earlier Heaven served, like you said, as an anchor, much like the blood used for the Kuchiyose—”

“That explains why the seal was drawn with your little white cat’s blood,” Kurama said.

Little white— Mito blinked. Was Kurama identifying Tobirama purely by his relationship with Matatabi, to the point that he looked at him and saw not a human, but a cat like Kurama’s sister? She filed that question to be asked when she had a chance.

“Yes,” Mito nodded. “By drawing the spiral using Tobirama’s blood on his skin, his body served as the surface that the storage portion of the seal would use to create a space.” When Kurama nodded – she didn’t check with Hashirama, because she knew he understood everything – she finally allowed herself to lean forward. “By drawing the eight ‘arms’ of the seal also with his blood, his body then serves to anchor the pathways created by the summoning portion of the seal. They are permanent, and built within the seal itself.”

“Meaning that it’s no longer depending on him or his will,” Kurama said, head tilted to the side. “Matatabi can move in and out of the space inside his body as she likes.”

“Precisely,” Mito nodded. Then, straightening, she levelled a heavy gaze on him. “I promised her that the seal I make will not be a prison, Kurama-sama, and I keep my promises.”

“So, you have,” Kurama said. “Are you angry at me for not having done the same?”

Mito blinked. “At no point have you ever promised to be sealed within me,” she pointed out. “Or within anyone. You didn’t even promise to _stay_.” He had never allowed himself to be trapped that way; if not for how inconvenient it was, Mito could almost feel herself admiring his ability to wriggle out of her verbal traps.

“Do you wish that I have?” Kurama tipped his head back, eyes narrowing.

“What is the point of that?” Mito spread out her hands, genuinely puzzled now. “Any arrangement between the two of us would not be fruitful unless it’s agreed on by both sides. If I coerce or manipulate or twist your words in any way, you would not be fully willing.” Pausing, she let out a long sigh. “A few decades might not seem particularly long to you, Kurama-sama, but it _is_ the rest of my life, and I’d rather not spend it with a belligerent spirit trapped within me.”

“But you would consider doing that,” Kurama pointed out. “You would _trap_ me, if I end up making a choice that is beyond your prediction.” White fangs flashed as he flicked red eyes in Hashirama’s direction. “Or your husband would attack and defeat me, and you would use that as an excuse to bind me using one of those storage seals of yours.”

Of course he would’ve figured it out, Mito thought dully. Kurama was many things, and none of those was a fool.

Hashirama smiled, wide enough to crease his cheeks and nowhere near warm enough to reach his eyes. “Only if you decide to go on a rampage and attack Konoha,” he said. “If you don’t, then we’ll let you go.”

“With my sister keeping an eye on me, of course,” Kurama pointed out lazily.

“Were you expecting anything else?” Mito asked, genuinely curious. “We might be trying to establish peace, but we are still, at our cores, shinobi.”

“Even if we’re not, it’s only a matter of common sense,” Hashirama added, spreading his hands out. “No matter how much we would love to trust you, Kurama, you _are_ very close to Konoha, and it _is _extremely easy for you to attack and even annihilate us.”

“You don’t trust to keep my word to leave you alone?” Kurama cocked his head to the side.

“I do,” Hashirama admitted easily, one shoulder rising into a lopsided shrug. “But I don’t trust that there won’t be others who would make use of you to attack us.” Leaning forward, his fingers clenched over his own knees. “I can’t be sure that only the Uchiha have the ability to control you, and neither can I be certain that there won’t be other people or things out there who could trick or convince an Uchiha to control you.” 

“A wise man,” Kurama said, voice lowering to a near-growl, “would not have said such things aloud.”

Throwing his head back, Hashirama laughed. “A wise man,” he echoed Kurama, “once told me my faults to my face, and then said, rather boldly, that there was nothing I could do to make me afraid of him.” He smiled, white teeth glinting under the bright mid-morning sunlight. “Those words made me like and trust him a great deal more.”

Izuna, Mito thought, barely managing to stifle a laugh, would take great offence at being called a wise man even as he flung the term into his older brother’s face to demonstrate his supposed superiority, at which point Madara would either strangle him or push his face into the dirt, and the two brothers would end up scuffling and getting absolutely nothing done for the next ten minutes.

Mito blinked. When had she become so adept at predicting the actions of the two surviving Uchiha brothers of the main house? When had she started imagining their antics with such clarity and a warmth that could almost be named _fondness_?

“—want me to _like_ you?” The incredulity of Kurama’s voice was, fortunately, enough to yank Mito out of the spiral of her own thoughts.

“There are few men who do not want to be liked,” Hashirama said, head cocked to the side far enough to resemble an over-large crow. “Even fewer who do not want to be trusted.”

“I have not agreed to be chained to your wife,” Kurama spat out. “There is no reason—”

“Sure there is,” Hashirama cut him off. There was a weight to his eyes on Kurama that belied his casually-waved hand. “You don’t have to stay, or promise to stay, for me to find you interesting.” The barest hint of a pause. “Or to like you.” 

“Hah,” Kurama said. He said nothing else for such a long time that Mito withdrew her fan from the sleeve and started playing with the steel-tipped ribs as she waited. Beside her, Hashirama’s fingers started tapping his own knee.

“Matatabi is right about you,” Kurama continued finally. “You’re absolutely nothing like what your chakra said you should be.” Then, before Mito could pounce on the question – for what it implied with regards to a chakra signature’s influence on personality, if nothing else – Kurama shook his head. “I have a reason for not giving you an answer until now.”

Mito’s breath hitched in her throat. Every question fled her mind and she stared straight forward.

“What is it?” Hashirama’s voice was barely more than a breath.

“Matatabi’s human dressed his idea up as a way to drive war into extinction,” Kurama said, lowering his head back down to rest on top of his folded paws, “but it is, in truth, a method to prove and ensure your superiority.” One eye fell shut while the other darted from Mito to Hashirama and then back. “This idea does not end war as a whole; it only ensures that you are so powerful that attacking you is an unwise idea.” 

Mito closed her eyes. 

“Yes,” she heard Hashirama say, his voice as weary and heavy as she felt. “Madara told us the same thing.”

“The Uchiha?” When Hashirama nodded in confirmation, Kurama’s snout turned upwards, his whiskers twitching slightly. “Interesting.”

Slipping her fan back into her sleeve, Mito caught Kurama’s gaze and held it. “I presume that you’re not concerned about the fair treatment to other countries,” she said.

“You’d be right,” Kurama said, ears flapping lightly as he shook his head. “My doubts concern something something else entirely.” 

He didn’t speak for long moments, turning his head to stare into the direction of the forest. His nine tails slowly flicked through the air, sometimes moving in tandem, sometimes with movements that were arrhythmic to each other. Mito watched them, and placed a hand on Hashirama’s arm so he would not explode from his impatience.

“Why you?” Kurama said finally.

“Huh?” Hashirama blinked.

“Your seal,” Kurama’s eyes flicked towards Mito, “and the little white cat’s idea… Both of them could be used by any other village. Even the whole village idea is something that someone else could have come up with.”

“True enough,” Hashirama said, tone light in a way that had Mito automatically curling her fingers around his elbow.

“Those are ideas that can change a world,” Kurama continued. “Whoever has the power to implement them quickly, before anyone else, has the potential to shape the world according to their own ideas.” 

“Yes,” Hashirama said, eyes still fixed on Kurama. He didn’t flinch when Mito dug his nails into his flesh.

“So, why you?” Kurama asked, still facing away from them. “Why should I help the two of you gain mastery of the world.”

“We don’t want to—” Mito started, but stopped when Kurama swung a tail impatiently in her direction.

“It doesn’t matter whether you wish to rule the world or not,” Kurama snapped. “The fact of the matter is that all of you are already uncommonly powerful even by shinobi terms, enough that it would be nearly impossible for the others outside your village to stand up against one of you, much less the whole.” His whiskers twitched as he let out a long breath.

“Now that you have added Matatabi into the mix, specifically using the power to ensure the near-immortality of even the weakest users of ninjutsu in your village…” 

When Mito followed his line of sight, she realised that was staring blankly at one particular tree that did not look anything special. His face wasn’t turned in the direction of the Mountains’ Graveyard, either. He seemed to be looking at something that they couldn’t see.

A world destroyed by the ‘users of ninjutsu’ he hated so much, perhaps.

“Do you dislike the idea of a world ruled by us so much?” Hashirama asked, tone approaching a tease.

“I don’t much care about the world and who rules it,” Kurama rolled his eyes, making very clear his opinion that Hashirama’s question was foolish and useless. “I am only concerned about why I should help you in particular.”

“Isn’t the fact that the idea is ours enough?” Mito asked, clutching tight to her husband’s arm to keep him silent.

“If that is your only criteria, then you will do well enough with only Matatabi.” Kurama’s gaze finally flicked over to meet hers. “She’s the one idiotic enough to bind herself to the first human who catches her attention, not me.”

Closing her eyes, Mito let out a low, long breath. “What,” she said, enunciating carefully, “do you consider a good reason?”

“Worth,” Kurama answered promptly. 

“How might that be measured?” Mito threw back.

Kurama barked a laugh that sounded like a deeper version of little Mae’s offended yip. “If I knew the methods to calculate worth, would I still be here, asking you to prove yourselves?” he said, incredulity ringing so loud in his voice that Mito had to fight down a flinch. “If I knew how it is that you can convince me, would I still be dithering?”

_Ah_. Just as Mito had suspected: Kurama wasn’t even sure what it was that he wanted to see from her. He was accustomed to his power and raw strength, but he had no experience whatsoever in _leveraging _on its use. Now that Konoha wanted to use his power – to use _him_ – and had made their intentions very clear…

Exhaling heavily, Hashirama’s eyes fell shut. “I suppose that telling you that we’re trying to protect our own people isn’t convincing enough.”

“What makes your people more worthy of protection,” Kurama retorted immediately, “than those of other countries?”

Hashirama nodded. “Would it work,” he continued in that same weary voice, “if I offer to carve your image on the cliff facing the village, such that everyone will know your contributions?” His lips curved up into a smile that did not reach his eyes. 

“It's not fair if the false gods are immortalised in stone, while the real gods go unacknowledged, after all.”

Snorting, Kurama tossed his head back. Orange fur shimmered in the sunlight as his ears twitched. “Your honeyed tongue is wasted on me, Senju,” he said. “I have neither need nor want for acceptance, and glory is even more of an unnecessary annoyance.” His tails whipped through the air in a way that reminded Mito of humans crossing their arms across his chest. 

“If I had wanted my image upon a mountaintop,” he continued, head dropping down to rest on top of his paws again, “I would’ve curried favour with Tamamo-no-Mae. Between the two of us, we could’ve convinced enough people to build us an even bigger shrine than that which is currently owned by Inari-ookami.” 

“Ah,” Hashirama nodded, smile so false that Mito reckoned she could see cracks like half-baked ceramic spiralling from the corners of his lips. “Then perhaps it is better that we—”

“Hold on, husband,” Mito interrupted. Shifting her hand to Hashirama’s shoulder, she squeezed lightly – an unspoken request for silence – before she turned back to Kurama. “If the arguments based on the gains you will receive do not work…” She cocked her head to the side. “Will logic do better? Or would you prefer morality instead?” 

“An interesting question,” Kurama said, tone contemplative. “Are they truly dichotomous?”

“That is up to you to decide,” Mito said, spreading out her free hand. “If you choose the path of logic, then you should help us, because the idea is ours, and therefore we deserve the privileges of having our first choice granted.” Her head dipped down until her chin brushed the hollow of her own throat. “As compensation for the effort and time we put into creating and testing the idea.”

“Logic dictates,” Kurama said, tone mocking, “that you _deserve _my power far more than anyone else, simply because you have put in more effort than they have.”

Stifling another twitch of the lips, Mito nodded. “Yes.”

“Bullshit,” Kurama pronounced. “What about morality?”

“You must lend us your power,” Mito said simply, “for we need it to create a better world.”

“A better world?”

Kurama was not the only one narrowing his eyes; Hashirama was as well. Mito shifted her hand on her husband’s shoulder, sliding her fingers into his hair and scratching lightly on his scalp. When he tilted his head away from her touch, Mito stifled a wince because she knew that he was—

Well, not _angry_, but a little confused, and a little hurt, that she had kept details of her plans from him. Especially since it was so necessary for the two of them to appear as a united front to Kurama. 

“We have no intention of ruling the world,” Mito said, ruthlessly shoving down her emotions and keeping her voice even and low, “but we know well how the world respond to power. Either they try to take it down, or they try to emulate it.”

“It is necessary for me to lend you my power,” Kurama said, mockery creeping into every word, “because the other villages, in their scramble to match up to your power, would not be as kind as to ask?”

“Have I not told you that I will give the seal only to bijuu, and not humans?” Mito cocked her head to the side. “And do you think I am such a fool as to believe that you haven’t warned your siblings about our plans, or that those who want nothing to do with us have not already gone into hiding?” 

Kurama’s red eyes narrowed. His nostrils flared. “If you dare threaten them—”

“I do _not_,” Mito snapped, cutting him off. “You might think us greedy, Kurama-sama, for wishing to have you when we already have Matatabi, but our greed has limits, and we’re not as _stupid _as to try to claim every single bijuu for our own.” Within her sleeves, she jabbed the nails of one hand into her palm. Pain stabbed up her arm. She let out a long breath.

She hadn’t lost her temper since she had married Hashirama, and she refused to break that seven-year streak. Especially not for _Kurama_.

“Yes, I admit there is a high chance that the other villages will attempt to take bijuu by force in order to match up to our power,” Mito continued, now staring an inch above Kurama’s head to keep her composure. “I admit, too, that there is a high chance that keeping the seal from them would do nothing, because they might come up with a seal of their own.”

“Then—” Kurama tried.

“The less powerful emulate those with great power,” Mito cut him off, “and frequently do so by copying _exactly_ what the powerful have done.”

(During winter two years ago, the Daimyo’s wife deigned to order a winter kimono from the Senju. The seamstresses and painters designed and created a tomesode, black with a heron flying over a lake painted over the bottom half. After sending off the shinobi couriers to the capital to deliver the kimono to the Daimyo’s wife, Mito had quietly ordered for over fifty copies of the same design to be made with poorer materials – inferior silk, duller paints – and without the Senju signature. Then she sent those off with two shinobi members, both specialising in infiltration. They had pretended to be merchants, and started selling the knock-off kimonos the week after the Daimyo’s wife had worn her newly-made kimono in public.

Despite being priced even higher than the original kimono without coming close to its quality, all fifty copies were sold within a single day.

Fools would look at the behaviour of women and dismiss them out of hand. Those who were cleverer would take their actions to be the microcosmic representation of the behaviour of their husbands and fathers. Where else and who else could the women learn such things from, after all?

Thus, Mito watched the women, and knew: those with lesser power would do anything, no matter how foolish or wasteful, to _appear_ exactlylike those with greater power. Mito did not know their reason for doing so, but she could guess that they simply wanted to try to have a taste of the privileges granted to those ranked so high above that they might as well be gods to those below.) 

“In other words,” Hashirama said, voice pitched high enough with false cheer to draw Mito’s attention back to him, “your siblings are likely to receive more courting than kidnapping attempts.”

“Courting,” Kurama repeated. “Is that what you’re doing to me now?”

“Have we not been obvious?” Hashirama raised an eyebrow. 

Kurama opened his mouth before his fangs clicked back together. He shook his head. “That doesn’t explain how it is a moral obligation for me to help you,” he said.

“Humans have had a single leadership model for centuries,” Hashirama said, leaning back on his hands and keeping his eyes on Kurama, “and we’re changing it to something we know will work better. And, more importantly…” His eyes shifted to Mito.

“The philosophy of our village will be that of the Will of Fire,” Mito said, voice steely and low as she kept her gaze on Kurama. “And if you help us, we will be so high above that the other villages will have no choice but to emulate, in one way or another, our philosophy.”

“And what,” Kurama’s eyes narrowed, “philosophy might that be?” 

“Shinobi are akin to fire,” Mito told him. “Mutable and constantly adapting to its surroundings,” fire shifted with every breath of a breeze, “but with a core that forever remains unchanged.”

“The village,” Hashirama picked up the thread seamlessly, “is nothing but a tool that will allow them to hone themselves to achieve their greatest potential.”

“But at the same time,” Mito spread out her hands, “every type of fire – the weak candleflame, the controlled hearth, the roaring forest blaze – has its own purpose and use, and thus, there is no need for everyone to conform to a single role or purpose.”

There were points that they would not tell Kurama – not because they wanted to keep secrets from him, but because he would not be interested in them:

Firstly, they decided to keep ‘Will of Fire’ as a name because it, like Hashirama’s tenure as the First Hokage, was absolutely necessary to lull the Senju into a state of complacency regarding the immortality that Mito and Touka had promised them with the village’s creation.

The use of the name was necessary because the Will of Fire had, in truth, nothing to do with the Senju. The flames were Uchiha flames, and the shaping of those flames was the Uchiha’s skills of katon and blacksmithing. The only arguably-Senju influence was in the insistence of the different purposes for the forms of flames, but that was simply a weakened version of the Uchiha’s model of governance that depended on roles, especially since the emphasis was on the _necessity_ of each and every role.

(No role in the Senju had ever been considered absolutely necessary, much less vital. Even the Clan Head could be easily replaced.

Butsuma’s death was proof enough of that.)

“Hah,” Kurama said, looking thoughtful. “So, you wish to change the model of leadership, _and _the purpose of a government.”

“Yes,” Mito said, withdrawing her hands from her sleeves to rest them on her lap. “Because we see that to be the best pathway towards not only peace, but…” She hesitated, searching for the right words.

“A life worth living,” Hashirama finished for her. When Mito’s eyes darted, startled, to her husband, she realised that he was staring into the space above Kurama’s head, chin tilted up and expression unreasonable. “A life where we are neither weapons to be wielded by the Daimyo, nor are we tools to be used for the perpetuation of our clan’s fame.”

“How horribly cliché,” Kurama drawled. “You refuse to treat me as anything less than human, because you know far too well what it is like to be treated that way as well.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Hashirama’s lips tilted up at one corner, “but I’m not that good of a person. My first instinct was, and still is, to subdue, trap, and use you.”

For some reason, Kurama only snorted at that. “What about you, Mito?” His red eyes shifted towards her.

“The Eight Trigrams seal,” Mito said slowly, “comes easier to me than any other. Yet I have chosen to not use it, and created a whole new one by breaking away from the usual assumptions of sealing theory.”

“Just to make it clear,” he leaned forward, eyes bright beneath heavy lids, “that Eight Trigram seal is the one where you put me in a cage inside your body and mind, right? One that will make sure that I’m forever locked inside darkness, deprived not only of the freedom of movement, but also any company or conversation, for the rest of your life?”

Mito felt her lips start to twitch. She allowed them to do so, spreading her arms out and giving the great fox an expansive shrug. “Precisely.”

“The much kinder alternative is, of course,” Kurama continued, still wearing that same half-amused smirk, “to agree to letting you use me, at which point you will use the nicer seal that you have worked so hard to create. I’ll only be confined to five hundred metres around you, never to venture further unless you allow me to do so, and my company will be limited to you and those you approve of.”

“It is,” Hashirama pointed out, “much better than the eternal darkness.” He squeezed his eyes shut, clearly trying to get a hold of himself, before he continued, voice shaking, “Or having a giant Buddha statue slamming a palm on your face.”

“Does the palm happen to have ‘sit your fucking ass down’ written on it?” Kurama asked, arch. 

Mito barely resisted slapping a hand over her mouth because— how did, how _could_, a giant fox who spent most of his time isolated from humans understand that particular reference?

“I can _definitely_ make that happen,” Hashirama said, lips twitching in full now, “though I think just ‘sit’ would look more elegant. A single _za_,” he lifted one hand, palm facing Kurama, “right here,” and started writing the kanji on the palm.

“After it hits me,” Kurama’s tails swished from side to side, “the fingers would become five pillars, and the palm a massive mountain. Then I would be buried underneath for five hundred years until a monk comes to find me for salvation?”

Mito gritted her teeth and breathed out harshly through them. Once she was sure she had _some_ control over her voice, she said, “You seem well-versed in the _Journey to the West_, Kurama-sama.”

“I’ve lived for a thousand years,” Kurama said, eyes flicking to her, “and I can stay hidden within a human population well enough.”

Which meant— “You are interested enough in humans, then?” Mito cocked her head to the side.

Snorting, Kurama tossed his head back. “I spent the past hundred or so years in the Mountains’ Graveyard with no company than myself, Mito,” he said, “because I saw all that humans were capable of in the centuries before that.” Then he started to stretch, paws pushing out from his body before planting firmly on the ground. “And all of it sickened me.”

Her breath hitched. “Oh,” she said, and forced herself to calm. She would not put it past him to change his mind just because she appeared too excited.

“There’s only so much entertainment to be found in the wilderness,” Kurama continued, nine tails raised high enough that the tips caught the bright sunlight and shimmered streaks of red and gold. “And you need all the help you can get if you want to make such massive changes to the world.”

Beside her, Mito could feel Hashirama’s chakra levels start to rise. The air grew thick.

“It’d be interesting to see what you can do,” Kurama finished. “Especially since the two of you have already made changes within yourself.”

“When?” Mito blurted out immediately. “When would you—”

“Come with me to the Mountain’s Graveyard,” Kurama said. “Watch the sun vanish behind the bones at twilight, examine the shadows of the trees underneath the dim gleam of the moon.” He turned his back on them. “At dawn, we will come back, and I will chain myself to you.”

“To Konoha,” Hashirama said.

“No, to you,” Kurama turned his head, eyes fixing upon Mito. “And to you,” his eyes flicked towards Hashirama, “though to a lesser degree.” Something must have shown in their faces, because he smirked, a single canine peeking over the edge of his mouth.

“Your philosophy is worthless to me, and I value the changes you wish to make even less,” he said, each other heavy and deliberate. “So, I will not bind to you, Mito, for the village’s sake, for I care nothing for it.”

“Then—” Hashirama started, clearly confused.

“When you asked for my help, you asked under false pretences,” Kurama stated. “Neither of you showed me your true faces. Not until just now.” Mito could feel her eyes widen so much that they felt like they were bugging out of her skull. Beside her, Hashirama gaped. Kurama laughed.

“I decided to help you weeks ago,” Kurama said, looking extremely amused now. “From the moment Matatabi told me about your plans, in fact, because it seemed a good way to spend a few decades that I would’ve otherwise wasted wandering and bored.” He faced the direction of the Graveyard again. “I was only waiting for the two of you to admit that you would’ve forced me into it even if I didn’t agree, because that was what I saw in you from the moment we met.”

“And you would still—” Mito barely managed to force out.

“Why not?” If Kurama had eyebrows, he would be arching them now; his tails were certainly moving in a way that suggested incredulity. “I’ve told you many times, Mito, I am not my sister: I need neither acceptance nor niceness. There is, in fact, absolutely nothing I need.”

“Except,” Mito said, “for a way for time to pass faster.”

“Come with me to the Mountains’ Graveyard,” Kurama repeated, “and you will see why.”

Mito opened her mouth. But before she could say a way, a sharp _clap_ rang out. Chakra thickened the air like an approaching thunderstorm, wisps of it snapping like tiny lightning bolts as red lined Hashirama’s eyes and a circle and dot appeared in the middle of his forehead.

“Run,” Hashirama said. When he lifted his head, his smile was wide and full of teeth, and his eyes were fixed forward and very dark. “You little shit,” one of his hands peeled away from the clap, palm turning to face Kurama. There was – Mito’s lips twitched – a kanji blossoming on the skin. “_Run_.”

Kurama threw his head back and _cackled_. Then he leaped forward, tails whipping like liquid fire as he grew and grew until he was half of the height of the forest’s trees, legs lengthening as he loped in the direction of the Mountain’s Graveyard.

Mito bent her knees. The ground rocked as Hashirama’s promised giant statue burst from it. Her arms wrapped around her husband’s shoulders right as he settled himself on top of the massive head, and he gripped her hip with one hand and steadied her by instinct.

“Husband,” Mito whispered. “How long has it been since you’ve played?”

“Not since Madara by the riverside,” he said, not turning towards her.

“How long has it been since you’ve played without having to temper your strength?”

Beneath her elbows, Hashirama’s shoulders shook. The massive wooden statue started lumbering forward, crushing forest floor beneath its feet and sending birds screeching in panic.

“Never,” he whispered. “I have _never_—”

“Wrong,” Mito corrected gently. “You’re doing it right now, aren’t you?” She pressed a shaky grin against his temper. “And if Kurama isn’t enough, I will call Tamamo-no-Mae-sama, and the two of them can set themselves against you.”

The statue’s every step was steady, but Hashirama trembled so much that his knees slammed onto the head of his own creation.

Ahead, the sun illuminated the waxy green of leaves and the dull brown of soil and grass, both colours contrasting sharply from the bright sunrise-shades of Kurama speeding through them. The fox’s howls and yips rang out through the air, deeper and more resonant than any beast’s, sharper and wilder than any human’s. 

Then Hashirama’s voice joined in, loud and ringing, with an edge of hysteria that blended in perfectly with the unrestrained, near-feral sound of his laughter. Mito closed her eyes. 

Years ago, Hashirama had told her: he had wanted a village so that Tobirama could read. Mito had looked at him, then, and did not ask: if there was a village, what would Hashirama want from it? What could he get from it? Mito had never received an answer, not even after the long months they had spent trying to build the village together.

It wasn’t simply having a giant chakra beast in the form of a fox as a playmate. It wasn’t even the sound of Hashirama’s laughter. It was—

The destruction of the forest around him. The massive statue he created and controlled like it was nothing. The constant cackles of Kurama ringing in the air around them. Tamamo-no-Mae, who could come to Kurama’s aid with a twitch of Mito’s fingertips.

Months ago, when they were in the capital, Mito had told Madara: she wanted the village to be safe for everyone. She suspected that Madara thought that she meant for women, or for Tobirama, but she hadn’t even been thinking about them.

Burying her face in the nape of her husband’s neck, Mito smiled.

Yes, in the village, Hashirama could be safe.

From himself.

The sharp-spicy scent of wood fire hit him first, but Madara didn’t have a chance to identify which wood was used before the scent was swept away by the heavier stench of iron mixed with the nauseating stink of burning flesh. Fighting down a grimace, Madara forced his hands to remain by his sides even as he closed the door of the laboratory behind him.

He saw Matatabi first: the blue flames that served as her idea of fur flicked and shifted with every breath she took, but the pale light that they emitted remained steady. When Madara caught her amber eye, she yawned in his general direction before turning back to the centre of the room.

“Attempt twenty-second,” Tobirama's voice, soft but resonant, rang out. “The bones, as always, regenerate quickly, though their shapes and lengths must be guided with careful control.” Chakra in the air thickened almost enough to be felt as a solid weight. Tobirama’s fingertips sparked with the silver-blue of lightning. “The placement of the joints and the cartilage around them is still difficult to handle, but the adjustments made to the seal have made it possible for them to be replicated.” 

“Only the big joints again, or the tiny ones at the toes as well?”

Kagami was hunched over the next bench, tip of his tongue sticking out between his lips and legs swinging in the air as he scribbled as fast as he could. Beside him, Maru kept a close watch on Tobirama’s experiment, the knuckles of his left hand digging rhythmically into the palm of his right. 

The question, thankfully, did not come from them. Madara would really rather not deal with Mikami and Komaki when they finally realised what their sons witnessed when they volunteered to be Tobirama’s scribes when he was conducting his experiments. He suspected that they weren’t expecting this much blood and gore.

Not that he would blame them for their ignorance: washerwomen rarely had the chance to drop by the medics’ quarters, after all.

“The knee and ankle joints aren’t as flexible as they should be,” Tobirama was saying, “but they at least exist and work, which can not be said for the joints of the toes. Those are being very difficult.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Kabato let out an explosive sigh. When he dragged a hand through his hair, Madara was surprised to see that they were pale – there wasn’t a single hint of soot from the smithy staining his skin. “I can _possibly_ make something that can imitate the movements of a knee, and if you give me a few more months, I’m pretty sure I can come up with something that has the full range of motion _and _weight-bearing capabilities as an ankle. But the toes…” He let out a heavy sigh.

“_Is_ it even possible to create a prosthesis that can wholly replace a leg?” Tobirama asked, head tilted to the side.

“Not by far,” Kabato snorted. “The big issue is that the only materials we have available are wood and metal, and neither of them can come close to replicating the small and soft parts of a leg.” He paused. “Or an arm, for the matter.”

Hah. So, _this _was what Kabato had decided to focus on now that he had finished his apprenticeship and graduated into a full-fledged blacksmith. Madara wondered if his current attempts to create a prosthesis was because he genuinely cared that much about Hikaku, or if he simply looked at the sheer dearth of aids available to those without legs, and decided to do something about it.

Given what Madara knew about Kabato, the answer was likely to be a mixture of both.

Flicking a glance towards Tobirama – clearly busy enough that he hadn’t noticed his presence – Madara asked, “What about gears and cogs?” 

“Won’t work,” Kabato shook his head. “For one thing, gears and cogs need a constant supply of oil _and _consistent force to work well, and having that on a body part is just going to end up either leaving a trail, them breaking down in the middle of the road when too much force is used, or….” He trailed off, and finally turned his head.

Madara gave him a jaunty little wave, and Kabato rolled his eyes. “I should’ve known besshitsu-san wouldn’t ask a stupid question like that,” he said, shifting the gaze of one eye to stare flatly at Madara. “Weren’t you supposed to have an important meeting, Madara-sama?”

“When did you start taking notice of my schedule?” Madara sniped back, arching a brow. “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, Kabato, but I am taken and do not appreciate your stalking.”

“Don’t worry about that, Madara-sama,” Kagami piped up without even lifting his head from the paper upon which he was still scribbling. “Everyone in the clan knows you’re taken. I think the entire continent knows, too.”

“Maybe the whole world,” Maru said, a fake contemplative tone in his voice. “Do you think it’s likely that all of Madara-sama’s shouting about his feelings for besshitsu-sensei has crossed the great oceans, Kabato-nii?”

Was Maru _still _using that ridiculous term—

“The bigger question here is,” Kabato said, glancing sideways towards Madara, “is if Madara-sama’s name is more widespread, or the rumours about his relationship with besshitsu-san are.” 

Oh, and Kagami was, too.

What a world he lived in, Madara thought wryly, when three civilians, two of them _children _who were still very far from reaching two-digit years of age, thought it entirely appropriate to not only give him cheek, but to do so in front of his concubine, whom they referred to with greater respect than they were using to address him. Maybe Madara _had_ been a little too overt about his affections, so much so that they had taken it as their due to tease him about them.

Keeping his gaze pointedly on Kabato and the children, Madara wrapped his arms around Tobirama’s shoulders and brushed a brief kiss over his temple. When Tobirama didn’t pause in what he was doing, much less flinch, Madara let out an exaggerated sigh, and hid his smile behind pale hair. 

(Maybe he should be upset that Tobirama didn’t acknowledge him; most husbands, he knew, would already be thrown into a rage if their concubines did not immediately fall over themselves to serve them.

But Tobirama was no mere concubine. Besides, how could Madara be upset when he was completely aware of the strength of Tobirama’s sensor abilities, and thus knew that his beloved had known he was here since he had first opened the door? How could he even _think_ of feeling upset when he knew, too, just how rare it was to be so familiar and so trusted that his presence could be noticed and immediately accepted? 

Why would he try to find fault with his concubine’s lack of acknowledgement when he knew exactly how hard Tobirama had fought to fulfil the expectations laid upon him – had fought to become the ideal of all shinobi – and now found himself comfortable enough to flout all of those expectations in front of Madara?

In any case, he understood exactly how it felt to have that attention entirely focused on him, and he would really rather not end up flailing with embarrassment and panic in front of Kagami and Maru, who were really too young to completely lose their respect for their clan head.)

“That’d be cute if not for the fact that besshitsu-san is, like,” Kabato waved a hand, “elbows-deep in gore.”

Shifting his attention back to the present, Madara arched a brow in Kabato’s direction. “Untrue,” Madara he said. He didn’t have to look down to know that Tobirama’s fingers were splayed on top of a monkey’s legs. “There is no occasion when we’re not a sight for sore eyes.” 

As Kabato snorted, he finally looked down. Just as he expected: Tobirama had finished rebuilding the bones and cartilage, and he was now slowly overlaying muscles. Madara had seen enough bodies stripped of their skin – even without the Rinnegan giving him precisely that kind of vision, he was still an experienced shinobi who had seen plenty of dead bodies in horrible states – but that was entirely different, so much so that he couldn’t help but be utterly captivated by the threads of muscles slowly regenerating and winding around the bone.

“The better question is,” Madara aimed his words at the three civilian members of his clan without lifting his head, “how on earth do the three of you withstand this sight? Especially the two of you, Kagami, Maru.”

“Uh, why won’t we?” When Madara flicked one eye upwards, he realised that Maru was nearly gaping at him. “Madara-sama, this isn’t any different from what we regularly see on market mornings.” 

“It’s fascinating, actually,” Kagami chirped. He had finally set the brush back on its stand, and was now stretching the fingers of his right hand by bending them as far back as possible with his left. “We know about the parts of animals because we eat them, but we never knew how they connect and work with each other like that.” He paused. “Much less how it connects to healing and medicine.”

“If that part of you is failing, eat that part of an animal,” Kabato intoned. “Eat blood cubes if your blood is weak, eat kidneys if yours are failing, eat brains when your memory starts to fail.” When he realised that Madara was staring at him, he barked a laugh. “Civilian wisdom like that is all that we know about medicine, Madara-sama.”

Civilians, Madara knew, were only allowed in the medics’ tents if they were receiving attention, visiting someone who was ill or injured, or as servants helping to fetch and carry materials. There were civilians in the cities who specialised in their own forms of medicine, of course, but civilians within shinobi-led clans had never been allowed to become medics or doctors. Why would they, when shinobi with their medical ninjutsu would always be so much better at healing?

Letting out a long breath, Madara shook those thoughts away. There was something more important right now—

“Let me get this correct,” he said, eyes shifting from Kagami to Maru to Kabato and back. “The three of you don’t have any issues with seeing things like this… because you see it during market mornings.”

“Oh, right,” Kagami said, sounding as if he just remembered something important. “You’ve never been to market morning, Madara-sama.”

“No,” Madara said. “I didn’t realise that there is so much,” he paused, “gore involved.”

“You should visit the fishermen just as they come back with their catches, husband,” Tobirama said, voice rumbling low and amused against Madara’s chest. “Their wives wait along the banks for the fishes, and gut the catch the moment they get their hands on them. The detritus is then buried right away so the river could be fed.”

“Oh,” Madara said, because he couldn’t think of anything else.

There had always been an unspoken agreement among the shinobi members of the Uchiha to keep the civilians of their clan away from blood and gore. Such things belonged to missions; given that civilians never went on any of those, they had no experience with them. Madara distinctly remembered his father telling him, quietly, that he shouldn’t even _talk _about what happened to a body after an explosive tag had gone off near it when his mother was in the room.

Now he stood here with three civilians, two of them all of _seven years old_, and they weren’t even blinking at Tobirama having stripped an animal literally to the bone and was in the process of putting it back together. Granted, Madara could argue that this was an animal, not a human, but…

But Hashirama and Mito definitely had a point regarding the roles that the Uchiha shoved its members into, and how ill-fitting and restrictive they were. He had known that to be true abstractly, of course, but now… Now he could see the effects with his own black eyes, without need of the Sharingan or the Rinnegan to augment his vision. 

“Are you interested in healing, Kagami?” Madara asked.

“Kind of?” Kagami scratched the back of his neck, large Uchiha-dark eyes blinking in Madara’s direction. “I’m interested in it like I’m interested in everything, if that makes any sense.”

“It doesn’t,” Maru said, and rolled his eyes when Kagami stuck his tongue out at him.

“I like putting different ideas together to make them form a bigger whole,” Kagami said, turning back to Madara. “I like to put things that might seem unconnected, like medicine and market mornings, together to see if I can make it part of the big picture of the world I am building in my head.” He paused, head tilting to the side. “I think my favourite part is listening to how Kaa-san and Kabato-nii and Maru and even Tsurugi-sama and Shiomi-sama talk about some things, and how those same things seem to become something else entirely when it is besshitsu-sensei who is talking.” 

He blinked. “Does that make any sense?”

“Yes,” Madara said, stifling the urge to laugh hysterically as quickly as it had risen up within him. “Your explanation is clumsy as hell, but I get it.”

A couple of weeks back, when Tobirama had told him that Kagami and Maru had volunteered to become his scribes, Madara had thought: the two of them surely loved Tobirama a great deal and were very driven, because they had to very quickly learn and memorise the specific kanji that Tobirama needed to describe and record his experiments. Now… Now he realised that Kagami was clever enough to look at the world and see how perspectives had distorted the same things, and he was even wise enough to put them all together to form a coherent picture of the world.

Kagami, Madara reminded himself again, was only seven years old. And though he wasn’t quite sure what civilians would call someone with Kagami’s abilities, he knew perfectly well the term that shinobi would use: 

Genius.

And to think that, without Tobirama, Kagami would’ve lived out his entire life as nothing more than the washerwoman’s son, destined for either the furnaces or the boats, because he was assumed to be good for nothing else.

He might have agreed with Hashirama months ago that the Uchiha should consider change. Now, he suspected that the philosophy of the Senju wasn’t the only one that had been dealing insidious damage upon those it was supposed to comfort and guide.

“Madara-sama?” Kagami asked.

Turning to the clearly-confused boy, Madara gave him a crooked smile. “You’d make for a good medic, Kagami,” he said, levelling a steady look upon the boy. “If that is what you want to do, of course.”

“Oh,” Kagami said. His chin briefly touched the hollow of his throat as he nodded quickly. “Thank you, Madara-sama.”

Madara could feel the weight of eyes upon him. He knew exactly who it was: Kagami and Maru were old enough to know the Uchiha habit of ensuring that every person followed the footsteps of those who came before them, but young enough that they could recognise neither the importance of such rules nor the gravity of Madara’s words, while Tobirama was still entirely focused upon his experiments. His beloved concubine had never been particularly good at noticing the existence of those roles, either, Madara thought wryly.

Then he turned to face Kabato, and lifted a brow.

“Be careful there, Madara-sama,” Kabato murmured. “One might start to think that you’re going to reject the weight of generations of history, and upend every tradition given to us by our ancestors.”

“Our ancestors lived in a different time,” Madara pointed out. “A time where war was constant and stability was a privilege rarely won.” When Kabato’s face shifted into an expression that was both stricken and mulish, Madara sighed. “Our ancestors would be angry enough that I’m moving our clan away from our ancestral lands to live in the village. I don’t think them getting even angrier would cause much more of an issue at this point.”

“Provided, of course,” Tobirama piped up, sounding far too amused to have been fully focused on the seal he was testing on the poor monkey, “your ancestors have the ability to haunt the living in the first place. Many of them have no such skill.” 

“True enough,” Madara hummed, hooking his chin over Tobirama’s shoulder. “But what if some of them _do_ have the ability to show their displeasure, and decided to do so by causing storms and lightning to rain upon my head?”

Kagami let out a tiny, high-pitched giggle. When Kabato arched a brow at him, the boy ducked his head. “I’m just imagining Madara-sama walking around with a thundercloud above his head, complete with little lightning bolts,” he said. “It’s very silly—”

“And entirely doable,” Matatabi said. When she realised that four pairs of human eyes were fixed on her and even Tobirama had tilted his head in her direction, she yawned again. “It’s just a suiton jutsu. I’m sure Tobirama can do it.”

“I can,” Tobirama admitted easily. “But I’d much rather stop angry ancestors from doing harm to my husband instead of,” the briefest of pauses, and Tobirama’s chakra spiked with mirth, “messing up his hair even more by electrifying it.” 

“Said husband is glad for that,” Madara murmured, tilting his head and brushing his lips against Tobirama’s temple.

“The more I look at the two of you,” Kabato said, “the more I start to understand Izuna-sama’s complaints.”

“Has Izuna-sama been complaining to you too?” Kagami whirled towards the blacksmith, already-large eyes widening even further.

“I think Izuna-sama has taken to whining extremely loudly about this whenever he’s in public,” Maru said, looking, of all things, contemplative. “So, I’m not sure if Izuna-sama has been whining _to_ Kabato-nii rather than whining _in_ his general direction.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Madara hurriedly stifled the urge to laugh. “He can keep complaining, and so can the rest of you,” he said, and placed a smacking kiss on Tobirama’s cheek for good measure. “I’m not going to stop myself from touching _my _concubine,” he did not have to emphasise _aishou_ as strongly as he did, but he wanted to, “whenever I want to do so.”

“You should be glad that Madara is only clinging to me,” Tobirama pointed out. “Because he could’ve chosen to prove his affection for me the way Anija and Aneue demonstrated the strength of their relationship.”

Despite himself, Madara winced.

“So… Was that what happened to the forest outside the village?” Kabato arched a brow. “Senju-sama uprooted nearly every single tree and caused enough wreckage to chase away every single animal for months… because he was trying to show his wife that he loves her?”

Madara was throwing his head back and laughing before he could stop himself. He couldn’t help it: the idea that Hashirama and Mito, who had always hoarded shows of their affections for each other greedily as if they were afraid that any such display might end up in one or both of them being harmed, had decided to put up such a public demonstration of their emotions was… ludicrous, really.

“No,” Tobirama was saying, his soft voice barely cutting through the sounds of Madara’s own cackles. “Anija didn’t do that. Kurama did.”

“I don’t get it,” Kagami said, blinking. “If the fox—”

“Kurama,” Madara corrected. Mito had been very insistent that everyone in the village called the fox by his actual name now that he had given blanket permission for it to be known, and he had agreed with her reasoning: ‘Kurama’ was far more human, and far less terrifying, than ‘chakra beast’ or ‘fox’ or even ‘tenko.’

“If _Kurama_,” Kagami corrected himself, “destroyed the forest, what does that have to do with Senju-sama and Mito-sama?”

Madara was the one who gave Mito the permission to rule over his clan in his stead, but it was still a surprise to hear ‘Mito-sama’ rolling so naturally and easily from Kagami’s tongue.

He tried to not think about how long _he_ had taken to even think of Mito using her name instead of her position as Hashirama’s wife, failed, and winced. 

“The easiest way to explain it is a form of acceptance,” Tobirama said. His words grazed Madara’s jaw as he turned his head, practically nuzzling him in – Madara guessed – an attempt to comfort because he had definitely felt that wince. “Anija didn’t like animals – not even Aneue’s summons – but not only did he agree to have Kurama stuck to Aneue for the rest of her life, he…”

“Talked to him, played with him,” Madara said, wrapping an arm around Tobirama’s shoulder as he inhaled in the scent of his skin, which still carried the smell of a rushing brook despite the blood and gore he was currently surrounded by. “Accepted him not just as a part of Mito’s life, but a part of his own as well.” He paused. “He might not have done it entirely for Mito’s sake, but he _did _start to try because of her.”

Hashirama and Mito had never once kissed in front of him; had never done anything as obvious as Madara’s inability to let go of Tobirama, or Izuna’s insistent hovering around Hikaku and Touka. But there could be no doubts that the two of them loved each other— or was ‘needed’ a more suitable word? 

Then he realised that Kabato, Kagami and Maru were still staring at him, incomprehension clear in their eyes, he sighed. “I suppose none of that would mean anything to you, since you don’t know much about Hashirama.” 

“Should we?” Kabato asked. When Madara turned towards him, there was a hint of genuine uncertainty in his eyes. “I’ve heard rumours that he’ll be the first leader of the village, so… should we?”

That, Madara thought, was the question of the year, wasn’t it? Of course he wanted to say _yes_, wanted to encourage all of the Uchiha to talk to Hashirama so that they could take the first steps into believing that he would be working for their benefit as the Hokage. Hashirama might dismiss his own importance as the incumbent Shodaime of Konoha, but Madara understood too well the creation of tradition. The Uchiha would _need_ to know Hashirama, and to trust him, before they could accept him as a leader. 

But at the same time, this was _Hashirama_, who wore more masks in a single day than Noh actors, and Madara would never underestimate his clansmen by imagining them to be easily fooled. Almost all of them were already warier of Hashirama than they were of Mito or Tobirama because they recognised that they weren’t seeing his true face, and they couldn’t figure out why or what he was hiding.

(Which, given how Mito _was_ and all of the wounds she hid beneath her skin, just made it even clearer that she was far more dangerous than her husband could possibly be.)

Letting out a breath, he met Kabato’s gaze. “I think,” he said softly, “there is no harm trying.”

“Trying,” Kabato cocked his head to the side. “I can do it, but do you think he has time to entertain the efforts of a mere blacksmith?”

“I think,” Madara said, keeping his gaze fixed on the younger man’s, “he would _especially_ have time for a blacksmith.” One side of his mouth curved upwards as he tilted his head, his cheek rubbing lightly against Tobirama’s. “It’s a new era, Kabato, one revolving around villages instead of clans. There’s no better time than now for us to look for another way to ensure that we don’t fall down the hole of Sharingan-induced madness.”

“Hah,” Kabato said. His hands slapped against the wood of the counter – a dull sound – before he straightened himself. “I guess I’m right, after all: you _are_ going to be the clan head who throws out centuries of tradition on its ear and shoves the clan in a direction that’s entirely unknown.”

The smirk on Kabato’s lips made Madara’s own twitch upwards as well. “It’s the least I can do,” he said, voice dry, “because my concubine is upending the nature of life and death itself.”

“Not quite,” Tobirama protested immediately. “I am merely extending the limits of healing. This,” he tapped against the monkey’s leg – the skin had already grown back, and, under Madara’s fascinated gaze, the fur was starting to cover every inch, “isn’t an attempt to raise the dead.”

“And you won’t try that,” Madara said, “because it’ll end up with you being tossed out of the clan, and I would be very upset with you if you do.”

“What need would I have to raise the dead,” Tobirama asked, sounding genuinely confused, “when I can make sure people don’t die in the first place?”

Closing his eyes, Madara turned his head and pressed a long, lingering kiss to Tobirama’s temple. “Do you understand now, Kabato, why there needs to be change?”

“Madara-sama.” It wasn’t Kabato who had spoken, but Kagami, and the kid had the cheek to sound _amused_. “We might still call him besshitsu-san, but everyone knows the choices you’ve made.”

“You’re really not that subtle, Madara-sama,” Maru chimed in, giggles barely muffled behind his hand.

“Is this,” Tobirama said, sounding amused, “something else that I’m not supposed to understand?”

“Oh no, no, you should understand perfectly, besshitsu-san,” Kabato said, grin audible in his voice. “The position of the Uchiha matriarch is too heavy to be borne by someone who doesn’t know that he’s carrying it.”

Tobirama’s breath hitched in his throat. His lips parted.

“Not yet,” Madara murmured, interrupting him before he could speak. He tightened his grip on Tobirama’s waist, but kept his gaze on the three others in the room. “I will make it possible for me to write your name in our clan records as my wife.” Another lingering kiss, this time to the corner of his lips. “I will have the Daimyo change his laws, and I will have writ into history all that you are to me. I refuse to allow what is between us to fade into obscurity.” 

“Madara,” Tobirama stuttered out.

“Then, and only then,” he continued, “will I claim you as my wife, and allow my clan to address you as their matriarch.”

“But,” Tobirama started. “I’m supposed to be—”

“Should I set up an altar in front of our bathhouse in this new compound,” Kabato interrupted him, voice twined with mirth, “and give loud thanks to you every single day, so that you will understand, besshitsu-san, that you have done too much to stay as a symbol of subjugation?”

“There is no more need for you to prove yourself, Tobirama,” Madara added, breathing the words into Tobirama’s ear. “Not with us, and not with anyone else.”

“Oh,” Tobirama breathed. Slowly, he lifted his hands from the monkey. The fur had grown back, and, as Madara watched, the chest continued to expand and contract with steady breaths. Throughout the experiment, the monkey hadn’t felt a single whit of pain. In fact, it had felt nothing, and would continue feeling nothing, for the entirety of the operation.

Tobirama had wanted to give Izuna and Hikaku more time with Touka, and Madara hadn’t the time to stay with him for all of his experiments. Without the Sharingan to rely on as a ready-made sedative, Tobirama had come up with a seal that simply knocked the animals out and trapped them within deep sleep. A gentsuju in the form of a seal.

He had done so in the space of two days. Two, instead of one, because Madara had created a schedule that ensured that Tobirama was never alone in his laboratory; there was a rotating list of Uchiha – Izuna, Hikaku, Tsurugi, Shiomi, Kabato, Kagami, Maru, even Mikami, Suriko and Komaki – who assisted him or popped by to bring him food and keep him company while he ate. Madara had, of course, kept the duty of harassing Tobirama to finish for the day and head back home to sleep for himself.

(It hadn’t been difficult to get his clan members to watch over Tobirama. Every single person he had interacted with on a meaningful, or even somewhat meaningful, basis had clamoured over themselves to volunteer the moment they realised what Tobirama was capable of doing to himself if he was left unsupervised in a laboratory.

And he had told no one except Izuna and Hikaku about Tobirama’s _successful _efforts in healing the damage caused by Mangekyou. He imagined that he would need to start fighting people off for the privilege of watching over Tobirama once he made that particular announcement.)

Despite how much Madara had wrapped himself around him to make him _feel _that he would never be abandoned, Tobirama kept pushing himself, practically obsessed with fixing Hikaku’s legs as if he believed that succeeding in doing so would prove himself useful and therefore still worthy of air, food, and water.

Water coalesced into droplets in the air before swiping through Tobirama’s hands, removing the bloodstains to leave the pale skin pristine. “Oh,” Tobirama said again.

“Let’s go to the new bathhouse, Tobirama,” Madara said, tangling their fingers together and sinking his chakra into the tiny tenketsu points there. “And after that, we’ll go home, and I’ll read a scroll to you. Something that you like, and which has nothing to do with research.”

Tobirama’s lips were pale from how hard he pressed them together. But he nodded.

Lifting his eyes, he met the gazes of his clansmen. He spotted confusion in Maru’s eyes, suspicion in Kabato’s, but Kagami’s eyes were bright with a certain kind joy that was entirely unmarred by surprise. When he caught Madara’s gaze, he grinned at him, wide enough to emphasise the roundness of his child-soft cheeks.

If nothing changed within the clan, Kagami would always be stuck as a washerwoman’s son, fit for nothing but the forges or the nets. If nothing changed in the clan, Tobirama would always be a concubine. Even having his face carved into the cliff would never ease the sting of being perpetually judged as not being worthy enough to be considered Madara’s wife; to always be seen as little more than a living doll for Madara’s sexual pleasure, for that was all male concubines were allowed to be.

Madara had once vowed that he would upend the world for Tobirama’s sake. He had gained the Rinnegan, a dojutsu that was supposed to be fictional, because he was so terrified and angry upon hearing that Tobirama had been harmed. He had placed upon his own shoulders the task of leading the village into a future after Hashirama’s short reign, and had tied himself to working with Mito for what seemed to be an indeterminable amount of time and, through that, creating a whole new world where the Uchiha, Senju, and the Uzumaki worked in tandem, 

What was changing a few traditions of a clan, a few laws of a country, in comparison to that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seals, in _Naruto_, are undoubtedly _all_ based upon the Eight Trigrams. When you consider that Kishimoto aligned the Uchiha with Shinto (Susano’o, Amaterasu, and Tsukiyomi are Shinto gods), the Senju with Buddhism (Hashirama summoning a massive Buddha, the ‘ma’ in his and his brothers’ names that is a direct reference to ideas about space that are specific to Zen Buddhism), linking Uzumaki with Taoism makes perfect sense.
> 
> I can go on about religion in East Asian countries and how they are separate and distinct at the same time, but that’s more of something for you guys to Google and Wiki to find out, lol.
> 
> Also, the second scene was supposed to be a small MadaTobi scene before I delved back into politics. Then Kabato, Kagami, and Maru decided that they exist in this scene now, and the whole scene just _spiralled_. It is a necessary scene to tie up some loose ends – hence I am allowing it to stay – but at this point, this fic _never seems to end_ and I am shrieking at myself.
> 
> (At the time of posting, I’m only two chapters ahead. I’m trying _very_ hard to not go on hiatus, especially since we’re so close to the end. Thank you to everyone who comments, because you are a huge, huge help with motivation. I love all of you.)


	27. the temperament of power

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings: **This is yet another chapter that’s entirely about politics. If the previous chapter is about the different facets of love that Kishimoto never managed to show despite supposedly having it as one of the main themes of _Naruto_, then this chapter is about the different facets of power that have been similarly neglected.

“You know, I’m still not sure why you’re allowing the Akimichi to see you this way.”

The deliberate casualness of Izuna’s voice made it clear that this was no idle question at all. Touka’s eyes flicked towards the gates for a moment before she tilted her head back.

“It’s not just the Akimichi, you know, but the Nara and the Yamanaka as well,” she said, drawing out the syllables a little just to see Izuna’s eyebrow twitch. “And is it as bad as letting you be the one to one to control where I go, when our clans have been fighting against each other for so long?”

Izuna let out an over-exaggerated sigh, leaning his weight against the back of Touka’s wheeled chair as he straightened. “That’s not nearly the same thing, and you know it.”

“How is it different?” Touka arched a brow.

“I’d like to think that I’ve earned the right to be the one pushing your chair.” His gaze was fixed ahead as he spoke, tracking the shivering of the branches in the trees outside the gate. “Maybe it can be argued that being able to look at you is a far lesser privilege,” _especially since I won’t let them come near you,_ he didn’t say but Touka heard anyway, “but I still don’t think it’s fair.”

“Are you worried that I’m going to be in danger,” it took a great deal of effort to keep her lips from twitching, “or are you jealous that they get to see me like that without having to earn the privilege?”

“Come on, Touka,” Izuna said, true-black eyes flicking down to her as his lips curved into a surely-involuntary smile. “When have I been so boring that the answer is only _one_ of them?”

Touka snorted before she could stop herself. “You try too damned hard to ever be boring,” she accused, and lifted a hand to lightly brush her fingers over his knuckles to take the sting off the words. “And I know you’re smart enough to understand why I have to appear like this.”

A flash of vulnerability; a show of trust. Touka knew from the previous time that dealing with the Akimichi required the very first impression to make a statement.

Part of her wanted to tell Hashirama that it wasn’t worth it. They didn’t need the Akimichi, Nara, and Yamanaka anymore, not when the Inuzuka, Hatake, Aburame, and other clans had already agreed to take up Mito’s invitation to join Konoha. The Hyuuga still held stubbornly to their refusal – they had a long-standing dislike of the Uchiha, and would not even consider joining a village that their only allies, the Akimichi, weren’t part of, no matter how much Hashirama had tried to placate them – but the village needed them less than they did the Akimichi.

Because they _did _need the Akimichi: their influence in the capital was far too deep-rooted and extensive that keeping them alienated from the village would only result, at best, in Konoha’s growth being stunted, or, at worse, eventually being subsumed under a rival village built by the Akimichi.

No, they needed those bastards here. 

“Do you think there’ll be a time in which we won’t have to calculate every move we make?” 

Blinking, Touka tilted her head even further, resting her neck against the chair. Izuna was still stubbornly staring straight ahead, but she had grown used enough to this position to read him from the tension in his jaw and neck. 

“I thought I’d be the one to ask that question,” she said, deliberately keeping her voice light. “Given that you’re a lot better at politics than I am.”

Izuna shook his head. “I might not get tired of it, but I know you do,” he said, voice dipping even lower as small figures appeared in the distance. “You, Hikaku, Tobirama, Hashirama… even Nii-san. You would all be better off if there’s a time when we can simply act according to our own wishes, instead of taking into account other factors.”

Touka snorted. Squeezing the knuckles still resting on top of the back of her chair with one hand, she patted Izuna’s jaw with the other. “These are the consequences and responsibilities of high rank, Izuna,” she pointed dryly. “There will never be a time when we can justify our actions by our desires alone.”

In fact, the only time when she acted according to her own wishes was her entire relationship with Izuna and Hikaku, and that was _far_ from impulsive or devoid of political implications. They might not be confronted with them yet, but it was only a matter of time.

Especially since Izuna and Hikaku were still refusing to allow her to move back into the Senju compound, and she made no effort whatsoever to contravene their wishes.

“They’re here,” Hashirama said. Right as the last echoes of his deep voice trailed off into the air, three _thumps_ rang out.

Akimichi Chouta landed on his feet in front of Konoha’s gates, rust-red hair hovering in the air for a few moments before spilling down like a sheet of old blood upon his back. Nara Shikami dropped from the trees barely a few moments after her lord had landed, and took her position one step behind and to the right of the Akimichi. Her dark eyes scanned the Konoha contingent – carefully not widening upon the sight of Touka – before she settled on staring straight ahead with her arms stiff by her sides. Then Yamanaka Inohiro arrived, landing on one knee at Akimichi Chouta’s left side – one perfect step behind him, of course, and exactly horizontal from the Nara. The rope of gold that was his hair, pulled back into a knot at the top of his head, caught the mid-morning sunlight, and gleamed nearly bright enough to blind.

Fingers drumming on the arm of her wheelchair, Touka cocked her head. Perhaps it was because they were no longer in his territory, or because she had looked upon him for quite a while as a tiny figure in the distance, but Akimichi Chouta looked dwarfed by Konoha’s gates. He seemed, Touka considered, almost _small_.

“It has only been a short time since we last met, Senju-sama,” he said, voice barely above a murmur as he bowed, “but the winds of change you called have affected the world quite immensely.”

“You exaggerate, Akimichi-sama,” Hashirama returned. He was trying for the same quiet, inoffensive tone that Akimichi Chouta had used, but he sounded unctuous instead. Touka twitched in her attempt to not smack her clan head.

“We have not accomplished nearly as much as you imply,” the idiot continued.

“If those words came from your younger brother, Senju-sama,” Nara Shikami said, her tone as indolent as her eyes were sharp upon Hashirama, “we might actually believe them to be sincere.” Placing her hand on top of her heart, she ducked her head down into a gesture that made Izuna’s breath hitch with – Touka was sure – barely-suppressed mirth and irritation. “However, we would not dare to infringe upon your right to be proud of what you have done.”

“Nor are we as callous as to ignore what you have paid for it,” Yamanaka Inohiro said, finally getting rid of his lazy-looking half-lids to open his eyes fully. “Or the pain that you have gone through.”

When that piercing gaze fixed upon her, Touka resisted the urge to give the Yamanaka a jaunty wave. She placed her hand on top of Izuna’s instead, squeezing those thin fingers and soothing out the Uchiha’s breathing before it could give away just how true the Yamanaka’s jibe had struck.

This was why Touka had always thought Izuna was full of shit when he stated that he was good enough at politics to force any and all barbs to slide off his skin: despite all of his training, Izuna was still an Uchiha. It was in his very nature to be emotional and take things personally.

There was only one person in this entire village of Uchiha and Senju who could be thick-skinned and cold-blooded enough match the Akimichi and their vassal clans in terms of political manipulation and manoeuvring, and Izuna had admitted – several times – that he couldn’t match up to her.

But even Mito had her weaknesses and vulnerabilities, all of which had come to the fore recently. Not only had she been rubbed raw by Touka’s near-death and Tobirama’s incurable blindness, she now could not deny that Hashirama inched further and further away from mental stability with every breath he took with the heavy mantle of leadership upon his shoulders. Hashirama tried his best – and always would try his best – to hold the pieces of himself together, but Mito was too clever to not be aware of her own vital role in keeping his fingers from going numb and dropping bits of himself that would be shattered beyond repair.

Being responsible for a clan head’s sanity, Touka thought, was a heavy burden to bear. Especially since Mito had lived through the consequences of allowing a clan head to slip.

Now, Touka watched as Mito stepped forward, and wondered if the woman who might as well be her older sister was up to fighting against people like these.

The Akimichi might be the dominant clan among the three, but they stood ahead not because of their power or wealth – though they definitely had more of the latter than the Nara and the Yamanaka – but because their vassal clans preferred it this way. Out of the three clans, the Akimichi were the most _harmless_.

Because they struck the body, the most obvious. The Nara struck through the shadows, laying traps that were impossible to grasp, much less stop, and were only known when one was ensnared. And the Yamanaka was the worst of them all: their light eyes stripped souls down to the bones, and they prodded at breaks and nudged at fractures until the skeleton snapped and the person collapsed entirely.

Izuna’s fingers tugged lightly on her hair, and then slid down to squeeze a shoulder. Touka took that as her cue to return to listening to the conversation.

“—absolutely fascinating water transportation system,” Akimichi Chouta was saying.

“That would be entirely to Tobirama’s credit,” Madara said. Touka blinked; somehow, within the past few minutes as they walked towards the administrative building, Madara had pulled ahead until he was shoulder-to-shoulder with Akimichi Chouta. He had Yamanaka Inohiro on his other side, while Nara Shikami’s silent steps matched Mito behind them.

The Shodaime Hokage was behind all of them, hands folded in his sleeves and chin dipped down. Touka was to his side, so she couldn’t exactly see his eyes from how they were shadowed beneath his bangs, but there was a hint of a smile curving the corners of his mouth.

Hah. 

(It wasn’t the fact that Hashirama was taking a backseat to Madara that surprised her – the seven of them knew that Hashirama’s current role was far more of a figurehead and spokesperson than a leader. No, it was that they were being so _obvious_ about it.

Were they really that desperate for Akimichi Chouta’s influence on the Fire Daimyo? Had there been news from the capital or, worse still, the Land of Lightning? News that would make the Akimichi joining them a vital priority?)

“Stone from the Uchiha mines,” Nara Shikami said, tone halfway between a contemplative hum and the characteristic Nara drawl, “and now water from Uchiha hands as well. Add to that the fires required for construction, and this village rather Uchiha-made, isn’t it?”

For someone who wasn’t even present – he might be the Hokage’s younger brother, but his official position was still Madara’s concubine, and thus far too low-ranking to be allowed into a meeting between leaders – Tobirama sure was dominating the topic of conversation. Given that this village wouldn’t even exist without him, Touka wasn’t entirely surprised. 

“You forget Tobirama’s name,” Madara replied, voice calm even as he arched a brow. “The ‘ma’ suffix has belonged to the Senju main family for generations; he might carry the Uchiha surname, but his blood is still that of the Senju. The credit for the contributions he has made goes to both clans.”

“A bridge,” Yamanaka Inohiro murmured, pale eyes lifting to fix upon the back of Madara’s neck. “Does he suffer the fate of bridges?”

“Are you implying that we have sacrificed children to ensure the stability of his foundation,” Mito said, voice twined with a very deliberate note of hollow mirth, “or that he is constantly trampled upon?” 

Touka had to stifle a laugh. Given that Touka was now living in what was nominally Madara’s house in the Uchiha compound, she knew that to be false. During the few times when her attention wasn’t entirely taken up by the two Uchiha who had painted their claims on her all over their own skins, she had seen her little cousin with at least two children who were constantly hanging off his ankles.

Though that wasn’t nearly as funny as the idea of _Tobirama_ being trampled over, however. Touka knew that Tobirama gave and sacrificed to lengths that frequently exceeded what the Senju required of him, but that didn’t mean that he could be taken advantage of. Tobirama had always looked with clear eyes at what was expected of him and made a conscious choice to give what he did. 

There were, Touka thought, more than one reason for her to be thankful for Madara. 

(Not _to_ him; she didn’t think she might ever reach that state, no matter the relationship she had with Madara’s younger brother and clansman. 

She tried to not think too much about the fact that Madara had _allowed _her to stay in his house – it might seem more like a communal building with people constantly walking in and out, but it was still officially the Uchiha Clan Head’s residence – and thus not only gave her easy access to Izuna, Hikaku, _and_ Tobirama, but also made explicit his approval of her relationship with the former two.

… Alright. She might owe him. Just a little bit.)

“—wouldn’t dare to make such assumptions,” Yamanaka Inohiro was saying when Touka finally dragged herself out of her swirling thoughts. “I know Senju-sama’s younger brother by reputation alone, after all.” The steeliness of his gaze upon Mito belied whatever courtesy his words attempted at.

“I do not think,” Madara said, pushing open the door of the administrative building – still a squat, mokuton-made cottage despite the majority of the village having been completed to the point that most of the Senju and Uchiha had already moved in – and stepping aside to let them through, “you came here to talk about Tobirama, Akimichi-san.”

Something flashed in Akimichi Chouta’s eyes. He tried to hide it from Madara by turning his head to the side, but Touka and Izuna had situated themselves on his other side for this precise reason.

Or rather, _Izuna_ had: with his hands pushing Touka’s wheeled chair and his feet silent, he appeared to be little more than a servant ensuring that the Senju’s treasured heir did not overexert herself. But he was a clan heir in his own right, and he had simply been waiting for the most opportune time to speak. 

“As you said yourself, Nara Shikami-san,” Izuna said, drawing out every word in the deliberate way that made Touka want to strangle him when he used it on her, “the Uchiha have contributed much to the village.” When he paused, his fingers brushed very lightly over her shoulders, and Touka leaned back to that touch to show he was allowed.

“I would say that it would be unfair for Nii-san to address a fellow clan head in any other way,” Izuna continued, a smirk creeping into his voice. “Especially one who has arrived to discuss joining the village the Uchiha have helped build.”

“There are two leaders of the village,” Hashirama said, deep voice low but resonant. “I might be Hokage, but Izuna, as the Uchiha representative, holds as much power and influence as the Kemuri.”

Placing a hand on his chest, Izuna bowed low.

“Kemuri?” Nara Shikami asked.

“A husband rules as the head of a household,” Mito said, voice soft but with a certain steely edge, “but it is his wife who takes care of daily matters. No matter how capable a man is, he cannot handle the upkeep of the estate and the rearing of children alongside his other duties as a faithful servant of the Daimyo.”

“What Mito means to say,” Madara said, crossing his arms across his chest, “is that Hashirama is our Hokage, and he rules the village. Izuna stands beside him as Kemuri, and his standing in the village is as equal to Hashirama as a wife’s standing in society is equal to that of a husband.”

Akimichi Chouta tilted his head to the side, looking thoughtful. “An interesting leadership model,” he said, stepping into the building. Meanwhile, Nara Shikami lidded her eyes to hide them and Yamanaka Inohiro’s expression went blank as they followed him.

Interesting. 

They took their seats. The places had taken some discussion yesterday – with three guests, it wasn’t as easy as dumping Akimichi Chouta into the seat facing away the tokonoma – but they had eventually settled upon a large, round chabudai. Akimichi Chouta, Nara Shikami, and Yamanaka Inohiro sat at the semi-circle with their backs to the wall, while Hashirama and Madara took the seats opposite them, facing the tokonoma and with their backs to the door. Mito’s place was directly behind and to the right of Hashirama, Izuna was situated directly behind and left of Madara, while Touka sat in between them with her wheeled chair behind her.

As they settled into seiza, Touka could see a thunderstorm brewing in Nara Shikami’s eyes: the Nara Clan Head had definitely noticed that they had placed the heads of the vassal clans on level with Akimichi Chouta. As her hand squeezed lightly onto Izuna’s shoulder as he ‘helped’ her down from her chair, Touka looked closer at the older woman: yes, she decided; Nara Shikami definitely noticed that the seating arrangement ignored the noble status of both the Uchiha and Akimichi by placing ‘mere’ shinobi like the Senju, Nara, and Yamanaka on level with them.

For a clan dependent upon their influence in the Daimyo’s court to give them leverage on other shinobi clans, this was practically a slap in the face.

But Akimichi Chouta was still smiling. The expression even reached his eyes. “I do wonder,” he said, “how freely and openly may I speak within this room?” 

“Chouta-sama,” Nara Shikami started, but subsided the moment the Akimichi raised a hand.

“We can play at manners and symbols for the whole day, or perhaps the whole week,” Akimichi Chouta said. His finger tapped the rim of his teacup the moment Mito had finished pouring the tea. “Or we can cut the chase and get straight to the point.”

To their credit, neither Hashirama nor Madara eagerly agreed like Touka knew they wanted to. They exchanged a glance instead, and Hashirama pasted on an almost-sincere smile as he leaned forward.

“One might wonder,” he enunciated carefully, “why you might wish to do so.” 

“Would you think it believable,” Akimichi Chouta tilted his head slightly to the side, “if I say that I tire of such machinations?”

“I would find it difficult to have faith, Akmichi-sama,” Mito said, “when you have practiced such methods for so long that they are surely akin to breathing to you.” The sharp _snap_ of her fan opening punctuated her sentence.

“True enough,” he returned, wetting his lips with his tea before placing it back on the chabudai. “Yet even the act of drawing breath can wear upon a warrior after a long period of fighting.”

“A curious turn of phrase,” Hashirama murmured behind his teacup. “Have you been fighting for a long time, Chouta-sama?”

“It is but a metaphor,” Akimichi Chouta dissimulated immediately, chin dipping down and eyes fixed on Hashirama’s. “My clan has been fortunate enough to have been spared by the wars that have raged throughout the continent in the past few generations, and enjoyed the privileges of peace.” 

Madara opened his mouth. But before he could speak, Akimichi Chouta’s head jerked up, and his gaze fixed upon the Uchiha Clan Head’s.

“The privileges of peace we have enjoyed did not and could not give us the power you wield, Madara-sama.” His brown eyes were very sharp as they flicked to the side, landing on, “Hashirama-sama.” 

“For someone who proclaims his desire to step away from speaking in subtext and implications,” Madara drawled, arms crossing in front of his chest, “you seem awfully disinclined to actually stop.”

“Could you blame him for doing so?” Nara Shikami finally entered the conversation, spreading her hands out slightly. Her eyes fixed upon Madara as she continued, “We are not such fools that we are blind to our disadvantage here, Uchiha Madara-sama.”

To Madara’s and Hashirama’s credits, they did not so much as twitch at the mention of blindness. Touka wondered if she had imagined that glint of disappointment in Nara Shikami’s dark eyes.

“Fascinating,” Izuna murmured from behind the rim of his own teacup, “that you believe yourself at a disadvantage.”

“Would you have us convinced that we are not?” Nara Shikami asked, voice tightly-leashed and dark eyes fixed on a spot between and above Madara and Izuna’s heads. “Have you gone as far as to think that we are fools who fail to understand what you are capable of, and the potential consequences that might befall us if we reject your offers?”

“Shikami,” Akimichi Chouta chided. At that single mention of her name, the woman withdrew her hands from where they hovered above the chabudai, fingers clenching into white-knuckled fists before settling on top of her lap. Beside her, Yamanaka Inohiro did not speak; if not for the occasional blink of his eyes, Touka would’ve thought him to be sleeping with his eyes open, or even dead. 

How strange, Touka thought as bitter tea swept across her tongue. The Nara were well-known for their near-clinical dispassion, so much so that there were generations-long jokes about how their clan symbol should not have been deer, but snakes instead. They were even more suited for the cold-blooded snakes than the reclusive Yashagoro clan, for the latter was well-known to burn with loyalty and near-obsessive passion to what they deemed to be worthy of their time. 

Even more curious, Touka thought, was the fact that Nara Shikami was no mere Nara, but their Clan Head, and one who took that position not merely due to birth, but also merit. Weren’t clan heads supposed to exemplify the traits of the clan that they were known for?

Then again, Hashirama wasn’t exactly a stellar example of the Senju Will of Fire, either.

“We had no intention of making you feel like you don’t have a choice,” Hashirama was saying, deep voice hiking up in pitch with the force of his earnestness. “If you join our village, then it will be out of your own will, and because you see the benefits that the village can bring you and your clan.”

“Bullshit,” Yamanaka Inohiro said, drawing out the word. When Hashirama’s eyes darted towards him, wide and guileless, Yamanaka Inohiro tossed his head back and barked a low, mirthless laugh. “Every move you have made so far, every piece of information you have spread about the village… all that is to ensure that none of us have a choice other than to join, and to join on _your_ terms instead of ours.” His pupil-less, near-colourless eyes shifted to Mito. “Or am I wrong that Uzumaki-sama isn’t here only as the Hokage’s wife, but as a symbol of the power that you Senju and Uchiha have at your fingertips?”

Mito lifted her fan to cover the bottom half of her face. The crimson paper and pale wooden ribs set off the vermilion flash of her eyes beautifully. 

“We have always known about the superior firepower wielded by your clans, Hashirama-sama, Madara-sama,” Akimichi Chouta said, his voice as even and level as his vassals’ weren’t. “We have not and will never challenge you on that point, for we are not fools.” 

When Hashirama opened his mouth, he held up a hand, and dipped his head in thanks when Hashirama obligingly clicked his teeth back together. “We only wished to remind you that such strength is not the only one in the world,” Akimichi Chouta finished.

“By threatening to take the mantle of leadership away from us?” Madara demanded. Which was strange, because Touka thought he had already past such overt displays of aggression.

“That was never our intent,” the Akimichi Clan Head replied, meeting Madara’s gaze squarely. Given the Sharingan – and Madara’s Rinnegan, which should be well-known enough throughout the Land of Fire for Akimichi Chouta to be aware of its existence – Touka wasn’t sure if he was being brave or stupid.

“None of the clans would join Konoha when we invited them,” Madara said, sweeping out an arm. “Yet when you lift your pen, Akimichi-_san_…” 

Touka might not know much about the manners of nobility, but given the way Nara Shikami’s nostrils flared and a muscle twitched at Inohiri’s jaw, she didn’t need to know much to understand that Madara might as well be insulting Chouta with the term of address used.

“That might seem our intent, but we did not—” Akimichi Chouta paused, shaking his head. “_I _did not reckon that my actions would result in any form of success. In fact, I sent out the letters to the other clans, imploring them to join this village only when I do, knowing that I run into a great risk of alienating the two of you, and possibly breaking our ties with the other clans as well.” He folded his hands in his lap. 

“Yet I did so, because it was necessary.” The briefest of pauses. “In fact, I believe it still is.” 

There was a long silence. Touka didn’t shift her gaze from their three guests, but, out of the corner of her eye, she could see Hashirama and Madara blinking rapidly like they were trying to process the bold claim that Akimichi Chouta had just made. 

Touka couldn’t blame them; she couldn’t help wondering if wax had built up spontaneously in her ears and distorted her hearing.

Silence settled uneasily in the room for long moments. Right when Touka was about to lean forward to demand an explanation, Izuna sighed.

“You would have us believe,” he said slowly, attention fixed upon Akimichi Chouta even as every pair of eyes in the room turned to him, “that you gambled your clan _and _your vassal clans’ safety for the sake of giving us a _reminder_ about the nature of power?”

“Huh?” Madara said elegantly. Touka resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“Akimichi-sama keeps trophies in his residence,” Izuna said. “A Hyuuga painting, an Aburame beehive, a Hatake pelt,” he trailed off, waving a hand to encompass all of the others. “They are gifts, aren’t they, for services rendered and favours accrued?”

“An interesting choice of word you have used, Izuna-san,” Akimichi Chouta murmured. “Trophies.” 

“Am I incorrect?” Izuna brushed away the few strands of hair that had fallen over his face. “You have hunted those connections as surely as the omyouji would their quarry, and collected them like a merchant’s wife would kanzashi.”

“I should have known the rumours were true,” Nara Shikami said, eyes fixed upon Izuna and a smile slowly coiling up one corner of her mouth, “The Uchiha Clan Heir is far more dangerous than his clan head older brother.”

Madara didn’t say a word. When Touka darted a glance at him, he was smirking, like she had already expected. 

Was the Nara’s information network really so lacking that they hadn’t realised that Madara was too much of an indulgent older brother – far worse than Hashirama even on his goopiest days – to ever take an unfavourable comparison to Izuna as anything but praise of his little brother?

Akimichi Chouta, irritating bastard that he was, was already grinning. “But that does not necessarily imply that my actions are meant to be a reminder,” he pointed out.

Izuna huffed, a familiar expression crossing his face – he was sick and tired of explaining. But when he opened his mouth, the name that escaped was _not_ Mito’s. 

“Hashirama?” Izuna turned, sounding impatient.

“You wield a certain power when you could convince the other clans to join us when we could not,” Hashirama said, practically on cue. “It is a power that you have held and polished over long centuries, and one that we can never match up.”

“A reminder,” Madara’s usual rasp had smoothed out into something nearly mellifluous; Touka wondered idly if he had practiced, “of the power that even the mokuton and Rinnegan would not allow us to command, but which has always been at your fingertips.” 

When she slid her eyes left, Izuna quirked up the right side of his mouth without turning his head. But Touka didn’t need to look him in the eye to know the glint of mischief there, and her suspicions were confirmed: the four of them had _planned_ this. They had – or, rather, Mito and Izuna had – figured out exactly what the Akimichi, Nara, and Yamanaka had wanted, and they had practically scripted this entire encounter.

They had left her out of the planning. Touka supposed she should feel insulted by that, but relief filled her instead: it seemed that Izuna had truly listened to her when she said that she would rather have as little to do with these political machinations as possible. 

To his credit, Akimichi Chouta had realised that he was playing according to their script, too, because he only placed his hand on his chest, and dipped his chin down to touch the tip of his own clavicle. “A necessary gamble,” he said, voice barely louder than a whisper.

The _snap_ of Mito’s fan closing echoed in the room. “For the sake of your position in the country?” Her voice was gentle but her irises were slowly bleeding into red. “Or for the position you desire in the village?”

“For the purpose,” it was not Akimichi Chouta who spoke, but Nara Shikami, “that this village, this _Konoha_, was supposedly built for.” Touka watched her hand clench over the rounded edge of the chabudai, and wondered again about the detachment that the Nara were supposed to have.

Hashirama jerked, spine straightening before he leaned forward, hands slamming down on the wood as his eyes narrowed. “Peace? You’re saying that you did all of this for—”

“Don’t forget, Senju-sama,” Yamanaka Inohiro’s voice cut through Hashirama’s ruthlessly. “We have lived generations in peace, and in _keeping_ peace. Generations that you and the Uchiha,” his eyes slid deliberately to Izuna, “have spent in war.”

“You would have us bow to your expertise,” Madara threw out.

“We would have you admit the need you have of us,” Yamanaka Inohiro corrected, voice like steel and eyes like ice. “And the disaster you court with your current actions.”

“The Lightning Daimyo howls for blood,” Nara Shikami said, hands forming a steeple that hid her mouth from view. “And he will demand flesh to be paid not only by the Senju and the Uchiha, but the whole of Fire itself.”

Was it the threat to her clan that had driven the Nara to such shows of uncontrolled emotion? Was it because—

“I did not make mention of the changes you have wrought for no reason,” Akimichi Chouta said, his eyes fixed upon Hashirama. “You might have formed this village out of a dream for peace, Hashirama-sama, but it is the tendency of powerful men to turn even the sweetest of childhood fantasies into a weapon for war.”

Mito’s eyes flashed red. “The Lightning Daimyo rushed the formation of Yamagakure,” she said, voice calm in a way that hinted at the temper boiling underneath the surface, “because he wanted to gather all of his shinobi in one place.”

“Yes,” Nara Shikami nodded. Her smile was sharp, and her knuckles were white. “His idea was not for a village of peace that will end the war between the clans of Lightning, but to create an army of shinobi who could all be mobilised from the same place and the same time.”

_Oh_, Touka thought, blinking. So, _this_ was what the woman was so angry about.

“He used the idea of a village,” Hashirama whispered, sounding horrified, “and used it to— to—” Izuna lurched forward, nails digging into Hashirama’s shoulder. Hashirama’s spine stiffened, teeth clacking together, and forced down all other sounds before they could escape. 

“The farmlands of the Land of Lightning,” Yamanaka Inohiro said, tone nearly idle, “have never been particularly fertile, and harvests have been bad both there and in the Land of Water for the past few years.”

Akimichi Chouta let out a long breath. “The Water Daimyo’s solution is to lay claim on the farmlands of his people and gave it to his shinobi to improve crop yields using chakra,” he said. A shudder wreaked through Izuna’s spine. His lips parted, but no sound escaped. “But the Lightning Daimyo’s solution is to tear pieces out of the Land of Fire and claim it for his own.” 

“And we have given him the perfect excuse,” Touka said, gritting her teeth together so she didn’t give into the urge to punch something.

“Senju-sama and Uchiha-sama wield great power,” Nara Shikami pointed out. “Of course, that has always been the case, and the power and danger of the Uchiha’s Sharingan has always been well known. However…”

“We were always fighting each other,” Touka picked up the thread, eyes boring into the Nara Clan Head’s. “Now that we have created peace, _and_ with Mito’s declaration that six of Konoha’s leaders are akin to gods…”

“Fear,” Yamanaka Inohiro flung the word into the air. “You wield great power, and that power creates fear, and especially so when you are clearly out of the Fire Daimyo’s control.” Crossing his arms across his chest, he tapped the fingertips of his left hand on his right elbow. “Given such a situation, powerful men like the Daimyo would choose only two paths.”

“To subjugate,” Izuna said, eyes sliding shut, “or to destroy.”

“He will try to conquer us, or to destroy us entirely,” Mito murmured from behind her fan.

“Both,” Yamanaka Inohiro corrected. His teeth glinted in the sunlight spilling from the ranma overhead as he leaned forward. “He will take the path that will allow him to do both, and choose the option he prefers at his leisure.” 

Hashirama was shaking. Leaning forward, Touka picked his teacup from the table, refilled it from the pot that Mito handed her, and nudged her clan head’s elbow with it. The tea did not splash when Hashirama took it from her, but the _thump_ of ceramic against wood as he set it down was very loud.

“Before a battle, one must demoralise the army,” Yamanaka Inohiro said, voice barely above a murmur. “And there is only one in this entire village whose death would destroy any formation or defence that you try to put up.”

Madara snarled. “We destroyed Yamagakure because they dared to take Tobirama,” he challenged. “They would not be so foolish—”

“They would.” Flat and toneless, Hashirama’s voice sounded like what Touka had always imagined a corpse would sound if its vocal chords still worked. “Because we have given away how important he is to us.” 

Izuna’s hand tightened on his shoulder, and Madara dug his nails into Hashirama’s wrist. At the same time as the Uchiha brothers had moved, Mito’s pale fingers slid into his hair, curled around the strands, and yanked hard on the scalp. Hashirama let out a long, shuddering sigh, but did not open his eyes.

Their three guests watched the tableau without saying a word; they clearly understood that they had trampled upon enough boundaries that to question anything right now would end up with them being thrown out of Konoha, impending war or not.

“You have bragged about the generations of peace you have lived through,” Hashirama said finally. “You have displayed before our eyes your trophies of diplomacy.” His voice was still the same corpse-like flatness, but his eyes were open, now. “Tell us, then: how are we to get out of this?”

“Trade,” Nara Shikami barked out.

“Give them what they need,” Yamanaka Inohiro elaborated.

“Famine-breaker,” Madara murmured, gaze fixed upon Akimichi Chouta. “Plague-healer.” His eyes shifted to Nara Shikami. Touka wondered if he realised that they were no longer black, but the light purple with concentric rings of the Rinnegan. “Crisis-splitter.” They finally landed on Yamanaka Inohiro, who pressed his hand upon his heart and bowed with his own pale eyes fixed upon Madara’s.

“You can stop this war for us before it even begins,” Madara said. “What do you want in return?”

“This village is made by the Uchiha and the Senju,” Akimichi Chouta said, “and you are determined that it will now be ruled by the Senju and the Uchiha as well.”

“You want to the position of Hokage,” Hashirama said, voice tightly-leashed. 

“No,” Akimichi Chouta shook his head. “Those who built the village must rule it, for it is they who know it best.” His lips curved up into a mirthless smile. “Of course, with later generations, that will not be the case.”

“So,” Hashirama started, sounding impatient, “what do you—”.

“You have sacrificed much to protect the foundations you have built,” Akimichi Chouta cut him off. His eyes slid to meet Touka’s for a brief moment before meeting Madara’s gaze squarely. “But you have declared yourselves to be gods, and gods are always dangerous creatures.” 

“I believe,” Madara said, voice calm in a way that hinted that he was mere inches from losing his temper, “you wished to _stop_ being oblique, so why don’t you just state straight out—”

“Centuries ago,” Touka held up a hand, cutting off the Uchiha Clan Head’s sputtering, “before the continent split into Five Elemental Countries, there was only the Land of Ancestors, ruled by a single Emperor.” A muscle at Hashirama’s jaw was starting to twitch from his urge to turn around to glare at her. Touka hid a smile. 

The most famous story about the Land of Ancestors concerned a woman who, supposedly, arrived from the moon to charm the Emperor and bring peace to the land. When she had first heard that part, Touka had snorted and dismissed it as a cute little myth told to children; even at a young age, she knew that dreams of peace could only become real through gruelling effort. If the story about the woman bringing peace wasn’t true, then it was likely that the woman herself was fictional, and therefore useless for her to focus on.

So, she had paid attention to the _other_ details of the story that caught her attention.

“Like all leaders,” she continued, “he had a group of advisors to guide his decisions, and that is the reason why, in every Elemental Country, we have a Daimyo and a Council of advisors, and every clan has followed the same leadership model.”

“Touka, what,” Izuna started, but Touka held up a hand without turning to look at him. Her eyes were fixed on their three guests.

“But that Emperor also had a group of men under him,” she said, “whose duties have never been acknowledged as necessary to the running of a government, and thus they have faded into obscurity, never to be duplicated.”

Crimson paper shuddered at the corner of her eye. Touka didn’t need to turn; if Mito hadn’t grasped what she was driving at by now, she would be extremely surprised and no little disappointed.

In fact, she was wondering why she had to be the one saying this. Shouldn’t it be Mito?

“You are well-read, Senju Touka-san.” Nara Shikami’s eyes were very sharp on her. “Surprisingly so for a woman rumoured to know little beyond the range of her fist.” 

Izuna’s fingers curled and uncurled from where they rested on top of his thighs. Touka ignored him; he wasn’t nearly as stupid as to start charging into her defence, especially when _she_ was still talking.

“That is high praise from you, Nara Shikami-san,” she shot back instead, a smirk uncoiling into being at the side of her mouth. “Dare I presume that you are willing to shoulder this burden?”

“It is unfair of you to bestow on me duties,” the other woman returned, dragging out every word, “when I know not their names.” 

Touka’s brow creased for a long moment. She had never been particularly good at naming things—

“What about the ‘Internal Security Force’?” Mito’s voice cut in, soft and seemingly harmless like everyone knew the woman wasn’t. “Plain, perhaps, but perfectly suitable to the duties of the role.” 

Tilting her head to the side, the Nara chuckled. “I would not mind it, but are you certain that it is my opinion that you should ask for? Should it not be Chouta-sama?”

Mito lowered her fan just enough to allow their guests to see a flash of white teeth. “Is what Nara-sama said true, Akimichi-sama?” she asked, dark eyes lightening into a brighter shade that matched her brilliant air. “Should we be asking for your opinion instead?”

“No.” Brown eyes sparked with something close to mirth as his gaze flicked towards Nara Shikami before landing on Mito. “Though I am very curious, Mito-sama: are we truly so transparent, or are the rumours true and you are a thousand-year vixen, capable of looking into the minds of mere mortals?” 

Mito tipped her head back and laughed. “You flatter me, Akimichi-sama,” she said, fan closing and tapping against her own ribs. “The skills I own are nowhere near those of a kitsune, much less a true tenko.”

“Your modesty is certainly unlike that of foxes of lore,” Akimichi Chouta smirked in response, inclining his head as well. 

“Can someone,” Madara said, sounding as if he was speaking through gritted teeth, “please enlighten me as to what is going on?”

“What does an Internal Security Force _sound like_, Nii-san?” Izuna heaved an overdramatic sigh. “They want to keep checks on us.”

“Not only on you,” Akimichi Chouta said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the chabudai, “but on any council, department, or committee you wish to form. And if you would allow it, we would also have authority over intra-clan matters as well.” 

“Why?” Hashirama bit out.

Fingers linking beneath his chin, Akimichi Chouta barked out a laugh. “The first reason is that we know peace and its privileges and necessities far better than anyone else in the Land of Fire,” he said, eyes fixed on Hashirama. Then, shifting his gaze to Madara, he continued, “We know, too, the perils of relying too much on power that is wielded in battle and not enough on the other forms of the term.”

“If you fear the Hokage, or any one of us, misusing power to get our way, then,” Touka begrudgingly awarded Madara a little respect for how calm and even he kept his voice despite his obviously fraying patience, “let me assure you that the position of the Kemuri is one that is supposed to keep the Hokage in check. The Hokage and Kemuri will have to agree on a decision before it could be carried out.”

“We will, of course, have a Council of the Heads of the various clans who choose to join us,” Mito continued, picking up the thread exactly where Madara had left off. “If we make a decision that you are displeased with, it will be easy for you to—” 

“For a woman who has named the role we so desire,” Yamanaka Inohiro interrupted, voice still no louder than a whisper as he turned to stare at Mito, “you seem rather unwilling to give it to us.”

“I do not see,” Mito said, eyes fixed upon him, “its necessity.”

“That is difficult to believe,” the Yamanaka Clan Head shot back immediately, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Are you dismissing our demands now because we went against your expectations of this meeting?”

When Mito’s lips flattened into a line, the Yamanaka Clan Head laughed, a soft and cold chuckle, and he held up a hand. “None of us came here expecting to become a leader of a village that we neither built nor defended,” he said. “Senju Touka-san knew this.” He swept that hand out towards her. “Why don’t you listen to her?”

Touka refused to look at the eyes that suddenly shifted to stare at her. “A terrible attempt to sow discord, Yamanaka-sama,” she said, eyes fixed to the spot above his head because his light, pupil-less eyes were nearly as strange to look at as Tobirama’s filmed-over, blind ones. 

“That is not my intention,” Yamanaka Inohiro shook his head. “I have only spoken the truth: you understand, they do not, and they have not allowed you to speak even as they refuse to believe the answers that we have given.” 

“I need not their permission to speak,” Touka refuted immediately. “I simply do not because I reckoned that our honoured guests _like_ these games, no matter how much they protested otherwise at the start.” Forming a diamond with her hands on the tatami, Touka lowered her head slightly. “I did not wish to be a terrible host who takes away the pleasures my guests have found.”

Yamanaka Inohiro stared at her for a long moment. “Pleasure,” he repeated, drawing out the word until its vibrations in the air were nearly obscene. “Very well, Senju Touka-san; what will it take for us to convince you to speak?”

“Nothing,” Touka threw back immediately. “Only a desire for you to speak clearly and directly.”

“Why?” If not for the passion that Touka had witnessed, she would believe in the drawling indolence of Nara Shikami’s current tone.

“This is a village,” Touka said, her gaze flicking from the Nara to the Yamanaka to the Akimichi before starting from the first again. “A village is one that shares not only living spaces, but the same leader and the same philosophy. In joining this village, you pledge to become more than Akimichi, more than Nara, more than Yamanaka; you will become _Konoha_.”

She smiled, baring her teeth at their three guests. “We are not potential allies that you manipulate in order to get the best trade deal you desire without giving up more than you’re willing to sacrifice. Nor are we outsiders that you will titter about behind closed doors amongst yourselves.” Her smile widened. “We are not even clans you have allied with, and who have gifted you with trophies that you will display.”

Letting out a long breath, she straightened her back and dipped her chin down. “If you desire your own position in our village, one that will keep us in line, you must be part of the village.” Her eyes bore into Nara Shikami’s. “Agree to be part of Konoha, and cast aside these tricks that you have always used on those outside the trusted circles you have kept.” 

Izuna was staring at her with wide eyes. Touka shoved down the urge to reach out for him and run her fingers through his hair; now was not the time, no matter how flattered she felt by the regard stark in his gaze.

“Well,” Nara Shikami said, sounding amused. “I did not expect to be caught out so explicitly.”

“The Lightning Daimyo created a village to form an army,” Hashirama said, his voice very soft. “That is, and has never been, and never will be, our intention for Konoha.”

“I never thought that two constantly-warring clans would be coming together to create a family,” Yamanaka Inohiro said, voice dry.

“‘Family’ is a heavy word,” Madara said, eyes fixed on Akimichi Chouta’s even though, Touka suspected, he likely wanted to stare at Hashirama. “And not entirely accurate to our intentions.” For the first time since he had stepped into the room, Madara unfolded his arms from inside his sleeves. Pale skin peeked out from beneath dark blue cloth as the Uchiha Clan Head smirked.

“We hope to create a _home_ here,” he said. “One where everyone can find safety.”

Oh. Touka fought to keep her breath even. It hadn’t been Hashirama that Madara had wanted to catch the attention of, after all; it had been _Mito_. And those words…

Somehow, she wasn’t surprised that Madara had remembered verbatim what Mito had told him. Just like she hadn’t been surprised that the two of them could follow each other’s thoughts to the extent of practically finishing each other’s sentences. 

They had come a long way since the first meeting they had on Akimichi lands. 

Izuna was looking at her again. Touka slid her gaze towards him, and pressed her lips into a tight line when the idiot only smirked, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking about and wanted to correct her. _Mito and Madara_ _aren’t the only ones who have changed_, she could practically hear his smug voice say.

She wanted to believe that it was a Sharingan trick. But she knew herself too well to not realise that she was far too easy to read, and she had figured out enough of Izuna to understand that, with his observant nature, he might just be able to read minds, and he was absolutely right about the changes that they had all gone through.

It would be terribly easy to blame Konoha; the village was symbolic of a new beginning, after all. But the words rang hollow even in her own head.

“—Shikami and Inohiro are best suited for the position.” Touka slowly peeled her hand away from where it was slipping into the kunai holstered near her elbow; Akimichi Chouta’s raised voice was not a threat, but insistence. “Are you doubting my understanding of my own capabilities, Madara-sama, Hashirama-sama?”

“Not in the least,” Madara said, his hands held up with the palms facing outwards and fingers extended. “Forgive me if it seemed that way to you, Akimichi-sama.”

“If Chouta-sama insists that the position will not be his,” Yamanaka Inohiro murmured, “then I will similarly retreat from it. It is yours, Shikami-san.”

“I don’t suppose I have the right to refuse?” Nara Shikami asked, tone sardonic.

“For someone who went through several circles to convince us that the Internal Security Force is necessary, Nara-sama,” Mito said, eyes bright and tinged with red above her crimson fan, “you do not seem eager to take on the role.”

“Those who eagerly accepts positions of power are unworthy of them,” Nara Shikami shot back, one corner of her mouth quirking up. “You would have far more objections, Uzumaki Mito-sama, if I had not made at least a token protest.”

Mito’s fan lowered just enough for her smile to be seen. But before she could speak, a sharp rapping sound rang out through the room.

The door. Touka blinked at it. Though Mito had not done anything when they had first come in, Touka _knew_ that she would’ve created a barrier of some sort that would prevent anyone outside from being threatened by shows of power from within. A barrier like that would definitely keep everyone from approaching the door. 

Surely there was only one person who could get through Mito’s barrier, knew enough to not barge into the meeting, and yet knock so obnoxiously loudly.

“Forgive my interruption,” Tobirama said after pulling the door open an inch, “but I believe this is an emergency.”

“Come on in, little brother,” Hashirama said. 

As Tobirama stepped inside, Touka kept her eyes on their three guests. She noted and filed away to examine later their reactions: Akimichi Chouta’s nostrils flared as he inhaled sharply, Nara Shikami’s knuckles turned white as she clenched her fist, and Yamanaka Inohiro, for some strange reason, _smiled_.

“Anija,” Tobirama started. Then, before he could go through the entire series of greetings that he now must make due to his reduced rank, blue fire shimmered into existence around his neck. Tobirama’s back straightened immediately before his head tilted back and—

No matter how many times she witnessed it, Touka would never be used to the way Matatabi would _peel herself_ out of Tobirama’s body. It was as if she was a flat piece of paper glued onto his back that pulled itself off, and then grew in breadth and width and height until she was the size of a tiger or leopard, landing on her four paws before staring at the room.

Touka noted, rather amused, that their three guests had stopped breathing.

Her mismatched eyes narrowed at Mito immediately. “Your father sent word that Isobu is in Uzushio,” she announced without preamble. “Given how long I reckon he has been wailing…”

Mito’s eyes bled into red for a moment before she shook her head hard. Gleaming brown returned as she lifted her hand to her own neck, nail scraping over the skin as if trying to flick away a particularly annoying insect. The moment her pale hand fell back to her side, Kurama _jumped_ out of Mito’s body, leopard-sized as well, and snorted loudly.

“I don’t see why I need to help you take care of the mess you’ve made,” Kurama’s deep voice rumbled through the room as he stared his sister down. “Isobu is making a fuss because he thinks that you stole _his_ human.”

“It’s not my fault that Isobu was too damned stupid to suggest sealing, is it?” Matata shot back, tone deceptively mild. “He might have met Tobirama first, but he’s mine now, and he just has to live with that.” 

“May I remind you,” Madara drawled, “that my beloved concubine is not a toy to be fought over?”

“Shut up, Tobirama’s Madara,” Matatabi threw at him. Touka had the distinct sense that she would have rolled her eyes if she wasn’t having a staring contest with Kurama. “Besides,” she was clearly speaking to her brother again, “it’s not you that I need to come with us. It’s your human, because this concerns Uzushio.”

“I wonder, Kurama-sama, Matatabi-sama,” Mito said, a familiar contemplative tone in her voice that started ringing alarm bells in Touka’s mind, “what kind of human would Isobu be interested in?”

“He likes my Tobirama,” Matatabi said, making a motion much like a shrug. “But—” She cut herself off, turning her head to the side and huffing out a few stray blue flames.

“Isobu is akin to a child, Aneue,” Tobirama said, voice level even as his fingers dug into Matatabi’s nape. “To him, Uzushio is appealing because of the whirlpools surrounding it.” He flashed a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes enough for the creases to show through the blindfold. “If Hayase-sama wishes him to stay, then he would have to make some arrangements regarding Isobu’s presence in the whirlpools.”

“A fascinating possibility,” Mito said. She snapped her fan closed before she looked around her. “It seems that I will have to take my leave of this meeting now. I trust that you will be able to aid my husband well, Madara?”

“Leave it to Izuna,” Madara said, rocking backwards before standing with one fluid motion. “I’m going with all of you to Uzushio.” When Mito raised a brow, Madara gave her a flat stare. “No Uchiha travels alone, much less Tobirama.”

“I’m not sure if I am allowed to breathe alone anymore,” Tobirama said, sounding a little amused.

“Of course you are,” Madara said, striding forward. He dodged Matatabi’s swiping tails easily before swinging an arm over Tobirama’s shoulder, and then rubbed his cheek against Touka’s little cousin’s temple. “We’ll try to be back by tomorrow morning latest, but if we’re not—”

“We can handle things here without you,” Izuna interrupted. Then, as Touka watched, his eyes narrowed on his brother. “Say, Nii-san, when you’re there… think of the clan’s finances.”

“What?” Madara blinked.

“Please explain to him, Mito-san,” Izuna said, waving a hand towards her. “I can’t be bothered to—”

“Oh,” Madara interrupted him. “Hah. It’ll be nice if they can have their own little storm bijuu-god, I guess, and stop trying to poach ours.” When Tobirama huffed, clearly protesting Madara’s implication that he was a god, Madara tightened his grip on him. Then he had to let go so he didn’t end up toppling Tobirama to the ground when Matatabi started poking the tips of her tails against his calves.

Touka didn’t even hide the roll of her eyes.

“Tomorrow morning,” Madara promised. “Or we’ll send word somehow.”

“Somehow,” Mito echoed, coming up to them. Kurama wrapped one of his tails around her neck – like a rather garish orange scarf – as she laid a dainty hand on Madara’s elbow. “If we are not here by dawn, take it that we’re still busy. We’ll come back eventually.”

Hashirama clapped his hands together. “How reassuring,” he said. Touka squinted him. That wide smile was fake, of course, but was the sarcasm because he was trying to lighten the mood, or was it because he was trying to believe what was coming out of his mouth?

Madara snorted, which really give no hint as to whether he thought it was one or the other. Then the air trembled for a brief moment before all five of them – three humans, one fox, and one cat – vanished. Touka stared at the spot where they had been and fought down a shudder; she would never take the Hiraishin again if she had the choice, because seeing it being used, seeing how people would literally wink out of existence was—

Disturbing.

Wait. There was something _else _that was disturbing. Suddenly, she realised that with Mito _and_ Tobirama _and_ Madara gone, the only person who could settle Hashirama if he slid towards instability was—

“Uzushio _is_ a week’s journey from here,” Izuna was saying, having scooted forward so he could lean his elbows on the chabudai. “But Tobirama has found a jutsu that can, essentially, bend space and time so that what should take a week now takes only several minutes.” His hands dropped onto the wood with a loud _thump_, and he smirked when Yamanaka Inohiro barely stifled a twitch.

“He came up with the idea to try to kill me, so I’m very proud of it.” 

Nara Shikami blinked once. Twice. The third time was far slower, and seemed more like her indulging her need for shadows and darkness than an actual response to Izuna’s words. 

“I see that there are many surprises in Konoha, Uchiha Izuna-san,” she said finally.

Touka couldn’t help it: she threw her head back and laughed. “If you are to take on the role to watch over us,” she said, lips twitching as she met the other woman’s eyes, “then you must always be prepared to be surprised. Especially by my little cousin.”

“Tobirama is a river,” Izuna said, voice deceptively soft. “And the characteristic of every river is its ability to shape the land according to its needs.”

“Needs,” Akimichi Chouta repeated. When Touka turned to look at him, his eyes were lit by a contemplative light that sharpened the dull brown to a glow akin to mahogany. “But the courses of rivers can be changed. They can be stopped not only by too-hard rocks, but by chakra and even stubborn civilian hands.”

“Is that what you will become?” Izuna cocked his head to the side. “Obstacles in the path of change?”

Akimichi Chouta opened his mouth, but his teeth clacked back together when Nara Shikami shook her head and brushed her thumb against his elbow. “Only the revolutions that we see no worth in,” she replied. When Touka lurched forward, retort already on the tip of her tongue, Nara Shikami caught her gaze, and held it.

“I am the fourth child of my father, and the only daughter,” she said. “Yet I stand here, as Nara Clan Head.” A ghost of a smile teased at the corner of her mouth. “Would you trust my judgment now that I have freely given you this information?” 

It helped, but only a little. “I will have to witness your actions with my own eyes,” Touka said, folding her hands back on top of her lap. “Only then will I evaluate your sense of righteousness.”

Nara Shikami placed her open palm on top of her head and lowered her head. Her dark eyes remained fixed on Touka’s as she smiled. “I look forward to proving myself,” she said. Her gaze flicked over to Izuna before she continued, “Thank you for giving me the chance.”

So, she had definitely realised that—

“I should’ve known you would’ve figured it out,” Hashirama’s voice rang out, sounding rather amused. “Just because I’m Hokage doesn’t mean that you only have to keep an eye on me.”

“That will be my first item of business, Hokage-sama,” Nara Shikami said. Her hands settled on top of the chabudai, one on top of the other. “The more carelessly you treat the title of Hokage, the less power it will hold when you pass it on.” She paused; her fingers curved slightly before straightening out again. “Whether to your wife or to Uchiha Madara-sama, it does not matter; they will have a terrible uphill task to regain the authority that the Hokage title had lost.” She held Hashirama’s gaze steadily even as the air thickened with his chakra.

“That you have wasted away.”

Hashirama let out a long, low breath. “I see the necessity of your position,” he murmured. He should, because Nara Shikami had flung into his face what people had avoided telling him for the past weeks. “Though I do not like it.” 

“You have me curious, Hokage-sama,” Nara Shikami said, eyes still fixed on Hashirama. “If you truly dislike holding onto authority,” she had peeled him apart awfully quickly, “then why did you decide to take on the position of the Shodaime Hokage?”

Touka’s eyes darted towards Izuna. Both of them knew that Hashirama would not say a word – the heavy silence now shrouding him proved them right – so it was up to them to decide. Which, of course, proved Nara Shikami’s point about the sheer worthlessness of the Hokage role now that Hashirama was mangling it, and thus they would _have_ to tell her. But—

“Once my eyes have judged your righteousness to be true,” Touka told the other woman, “then you will be told.”

“Of course,” Nara Shikami inclined her head. “I do not expect secrets to be immediately revealed.”

“A house perpetually shrouded in shadow,” Yamanaka Inohiro said, his quiet voice cutting through the air, “does not make for a home.”

He was right; they would have to spill their secrets beyond the seven of them, especially when the other clans started moving in. Only tyrants would demand of their subjects what they were unwilling to give themselves.

Still—

“Not yet,” Hashirama murmured. “Not yet.”

They would have to tell, Touka knew. Hashirama’s behaviour was too erratic to allow _anyone’s_ mind to be at ease when they watched. Add to the fact that he was the Hokage, the one who was supposed to lead the village… 

Izuna huffed out a long, low breath. His lashes brushed the tops of his cheekbones as he murmured, “We look not only to changes in the world, but also ourselves.” He shook his head. “I should have known.”

To say the least, Touka thought grimly. There was still such a terribly long way more to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hate the whole “every child is exactly like their parent” trope that Kishimoto keeps using. Hence, Chouta, Shikami, and Inohiro are _nothing_ like Chouza or Chouji, Shikaku or Shikamaru, or Inoichi or Ino. This is entirely deliberate and caused by me shaking my fist at Kishimoto’s lazy writing. Shikami’s characterisation, in particular, is inspired by [Ii Naotora](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ii_Naotora).
> 
> Next chapter would be another time-skip. Chapters 28, 29 and 30 all take place within the same day, and Chapter 30 will be the ‘official’ end of the fic. Chapter 31 is an Epilogue that takes place way into the future. I'm still chugging along towards the end, so the posting schedule _should_ continue as per normal until I'm done. (Crossed fingers!) Thank you for everyone who commented and kudos'd, and to those of you who commented in the bookmarks. I really do get motivated by reading what you like about my writing. ♥❤♥


	28. to wear down stone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings: **Over three years have passed between the last chapter and this one, and this chapter should outline the major events that have happened. There’s a lot about power and gender and morality in the first scene here that’s rather subtle but very important given the next two chapters. I’m sure that it’s really obvious by now that my politics is never just about one thing; it’s always intersectional.

“You’re being too damned nice to them,” Madara complained. “I’m still of the opinion that we should leave them outside the door until they beg us for mercy.”

Face half-shadowed by the ridiculous Hokage hat that he had designed himself, Hashirama threw his head back and laughed. “They agreed to our demands, Madara,” he said, lips twitching upwards at the side. “And we’re _still _not in the position of being known for going back on our word.”

They should be by now, Madara groused mentally. Not that he wanted Konoha to be known for being dishonourable and untrustworthy, but because they _should_ have the kind of power that allowed them to do as they wished. Nearly every other organisation of significance – whether it was the Daimyo like the one of the Land of Lightning, or the leader of a shinobi village which had just sprouted up in the Land of Water – had paid their tributes to Konoha.

Hell, Kirigakure’s leaders had even called themselves Mizukage and Hikari in the same fashion that Konoha had named their leaders the Hokage and Kemuri. And they were only the last in a line of shinobi villages popping up that stole their naming scheme: there was Sunagakure and their Kazekage and Hokori – dust, which was as abundant in the desert as sand and wind; and Iwagakure ruled by the Tsuchikage and Hankou – after the echoes found in the abundant caves in the Land of Earth. Even the Lightning Daimyo’s newly-formed Kumogakure, made to replace the destroyed Yamagakure, had named their leaders Raikage and Zanzou, the latter meaning the afterimages that lingered after lightning had faded.

At this point, Madara wasn’t even sure if the other countries were pandering to them, or if they were simply unimaginative. He shook his head to dislodge the thought, focusing back on the issue: mainly, the group of long, dark-haired shinobi approaching their gates. They were moving slowly enough that the rising sun seemed to be outpacing them.

“Three years,” Madara snapped. “It has taken them _three whole years_ to even _consider _getting their heads out of their asses.” 

As far as Madara was concerned, the Hyuuga was still looking at nothing but darkness and smelling only shit, because they were supposedly coming here to _negotiate_ instead of capitulate like they _should_.

“Not everyone is like us, Nii-san,” Izuna yawned out from beside him, “entirely willing to throw away centuries of history for the sake of a dream that might not even succeed.”

“I didn’t ask them to throw away history,” Madara protested, indignant. “All I asked was for them to get rid of a fucking barbaric custom they have.”

Izuna rolled his eyes. “The Hyuuga have been using the Caged Bird Seal might for so long that it has become as much a part of them as the Byakugan and their ink paintings,” he said. “I’m surprised they’re actually _considering _ripping out something they see to be so integral to themselves, even more so it has only taken them three years.”

“I wouldn’t say it is as much part of them as the Byakugan,” Hashirama said, arms crossing on his chest and gaze fixed upon the approaching Hyuuga. “A better comparison is the ‘Hi’ in the name of every Clan Head and potential Clan Heir.”

“Just like the Senju marked their main family members with ‘ma’?” Madara arched a brow.

“Even worse,” Hashirama’s eyes were dark and troubled as he stared forward at the purple-streaked sun. “It is an overt mark of status.” He paused. “A symbol of dominance bestowed at the moment of birth.”

Dominance brought immediately to mind subjugation, especially with that particular phrasing, and Madara found himself stifling a wince. There it was, the other reason why he was pissed that the Fire Daimyo and the other countries weren’t overtly acknowledging Konoha’s superiority: without that card to play, Madara couldn’t demand that the marriage laws of the Land of Fire be changed.

It was nearly five years since Tobirama had been brought into the Uchiha as a concubine, and over three since Madara had vowed to raise his status to that of a wife, and _still_ the Uchiha called him ‘besshitsu-san.’ It was _still _impossible for Madara to receive any kind of official document declaring Tobirama’s rightful place as the matriarch of his house and clan.

“I can feel you fretting over Tobirama from here, Nii-san,” Izuna said, voice wry as he slid his gaze towards his elder brother. “Given that he’s _not_ wearing a seal that allows either of us, or anyone, to gain complete control over him, I’d dare say that he’s in a far better condition than the members of the Hyuuga branch families.”

“That,” Hashirama piped up before Madara could say a word, “is a terribly low bar.”

“Make sure to tell that to the Hyuuga bastards,” Madara said. “Look in those fucking creepy white eyes of theirs and state outright what you think about their clan and practices.”

“Can I just say,” Hashirama said, every other word trembling with poorly-hidden mirth, “that Uchiha eyes can be described as ‘fucking creepy’ as well? They’re red, Madara. The Senju used to have stories about the Uchiha drinking the blood of their enemies to make sure their Sharingan remains red.”

Silence descended.

“That’s not how biology works,” Izuna said finally. Madara continued to blink rapidly.

“How would those Senju stories account for my Rinnegan?” he asked, curious despite himself. “I know that you guys likely don’t come up with shit like that anymore—”

“Last I heard,” Hashirama interrupted ruthlessly, lips spread into a wide smile that showed off all of his teeth, “the elders were telling the children that you had drank so much of your enemies’ blood that your Sharingan could no longer contain all of the red, and that overflow created a whirlpool, which is your Rinnegan.”

Madara opened his mouth. Closed it. “There is so much wrong with that entire statement that I don’t know where to start,” he said.

“You’re shitting us, aren’t you?” Izuna said, eyes narrowing on the Hokage.

Hashirama barked a laugh. “I wish,” he shook his head. “There’s barely more than a year until my five years as Hokage are up, and the Senju elders are still trying to poison the younger ones in the clan against the Uchiha.” He pressed his lips together for a long moment. “Against everyone else in the village, in fact.”

“But they’re not succeeding in doing anything but driving a wedge between themselves and the rest of the Senju,” Madara said, head tilted to the side as he stared at his best friend. “Because Tobirama’s Academy and his ideas about mixed-clan classes and teams are creating village unity.”

“And Mito’s Will of Fire provides a good driving force and identity for everyone to stand behind,” Izuna added. “It allows everyone to work together for the same purpose, at the very least.”

“Exactly,” Hashirama said. “It’s difficult to see someone as a monster when you see and work with them every day.” His knuckles turned white at his own elbows before he loosened them, arms falling back to his sides as he sighed. “At this point, I’m starting to think that the only way the elders could be convinced that the village is a good idea is if they’re dead.”

“Don’t murder your elders, Hashirama,” Madara ordered automatically.

“Killing all of them now would be stupid and unnecessary,” Hashirama waved a hand, “because they’re making themselves obsolete anyway.” He paused. There was the barest hint of a smirk at the corner of his lips as he said, “I’ve never said a word, and Mito and Touka didn’t either, but many of my generation of Senju are realising the stark differences between Konoha’s Will of Fire and that of the Senju.” His dark eyes slid towards Madara.

“And they know which one they prefer.”

“There have been a lot of Senju marriages,” Izuna stated with his eyes raised to stare at the skies. “Senju women are marrying out of the clan at a very rapid rate.”

“Mm,” Hashirama nodded.

“If only there was a way for the men to easily marry out as well,” Izuna continued.

That wasn’t meant for the Senju alone. Madara slipped both hands into his sleeves, digging his nails into his palms, so he wouldn’t say something he would later regret. It wasn’t only for his own and Tobirama’s sakes that he was pushing so hard for the marriage laws in the Land of Fire to be changed.

The choices he had made affected not only him, but Izuna as well. And though part of him wanted to blame Hashirama, he knew he couldn’t: it had been absolutely necessary for Hashirama to abdicate his position as the Senju Clan Head during the second year of his reign as Hokage, because the alternative had been breaking down and going mad from the pressure and stress.

But that had left Touka as the Senju Clan Head, rooted to that position as the last remaining Senju who was directly descended from the main line. And Madara’s choices had left Izuna as the only possible choice to continue the Uchiha main line.

An easy way for men to marry out, indeed.__  
  
“A few more generations,” Hashirama said, voice dipped low and the Hokage hat shadowing his eyes, “and the Senju name will be nothing but a footnote in history.”

“Not so small as a footnote,” Izuna said, voice dry. “You got your way with the gaudy faces on the cliff side, Hashirama. At the very least, the history will know ‘Senju’ from _your_ name.” He paused, as if remembering something. “And your children’s too.”

Hashirama shook his head. “My children will be Uzumaki,” he said, a flash of white teeth showing beneath his grinning lips. “And, once enough time has passed, so will I.”

Madara stared at him. “What,” he stated flatly. “You would—” _Give up your name_, he almost said, and only managed to swallow back the words in time. Of course Hashirama would do that – weren’t they talking about how much he was ensuring that the Senju would end up an empty name and an empty clan? Even though Hashirama acknowledged that the younger members of the clan were changing, shifting away from the damaging philosophy of his clan, he still didn’t want the Senju to remain in existence.

So, why would it be a surprise that he would allow – no, _insist _that – his children take their mother’s name? It was only… he looked at Hashirama again, staring at the dark hair that gleamed underneath the bright sunshine of the mid-autumn morning, a few strands shimmering red when brushing across the crimson paint of the Hokage’s cloak. The white cloth stretched over his broad shoulders, and though it had been years since Hashirama had had to take a mission, Madara had witnessed enough of his ‘playtimes’ with Kurama to know the power he wielded.

Madara shook his head. No, none of that was relevant; Hashirama’s appearance and power had nothing to do what he was thinking about.

In fact, he wasn’t even entirely sure why he was so stuck on the idea that Hashirama would be giving up his surname. All he could think of was his instinctive and immediate horror when he had first heard that Tobirama had offered to become his concubine, thereby giving up the place where his tablet would be in the Senju halls, but that wasn’t…

Hashirama’s face had been _carved_ on a _cliff_. He was granted immortality for as long as that cliff stood; there was absolutely no need for Madara to worry that he would vanish from the annals of history just because he didn’t give his children his surname.

Pain sparked on the back of his head. Madara’s lips peeled back, and his hand snapped up.

“—get your head back on your neck,” Izuna’s black eyes were narrowed upon his even as Madara’s nails dug into the wrist in his grasp. “The Hyuuga are approaching.”

The Hyuuga. Right. The reason why they were standing here at the gates at this unholy hour in the morning in the first place. Madara resisted the urge to drag a hand down his face, instead blinking rapidly as he tried to focus back on the matter at hand: the group of pale-skinned, pale-eyed bastards finally approaching their gates.

“I’m focused,” he growled at his brother. “And you didn’t need to _smack_ me.”

“You should thank me,” Izuna told him tartly. “The train of thought you were going down was stupid enough that I could hear your brain cells rotting from it.” 

Snatching his hand out of Izuna’s grasp, Madara used it to smack the back of his little brother’s head. Izuna dodged like Madara knew he would, and Madara grinned, his eyes shifting to the Rinnegan for the briefest of moments—

“Tendo: Shinra Tensei,” he whispered under his breath, and smirked when the Rinnegan’s repulsive force smacked Izuna upside the head. Izuna yelped, head jerking up as his arms flailed in an overdramatic attempt to keep his balance, and Madara rolled his eyes. 

He crooked his fingers, “Tendo: Banshou Ten’in,” and pulled Izuna back onto his feet using the Rinnegan’s attractive force. He deliberately used too much of it, and Izuna’s long ponytail whipped around his neck, and the ends of the strands shoved into his face, making him choke and sputter. 

On his other side, Hashirama burst out laughing. Madara had to stifle the urge to do the same because Izuna was glaring at him. He only had a brief moment to muse that he really had been influenced too much by the Senju – he never would have thought of using the Sharingan to tease his brother two years ago, much less the Rinnegan – before he smelled the distinctive scent of burning hair.

“Izuna,” Madara said, barely keeping his composure. “Stop using Amaterasu on my hair.”

“Stop using Tendo on me, then,” Izuna shot back, sticking out his tongue like the mature, full-grown shinobi that he was. Still, to his credit, the heat at the ends of Madara’s hair vanished, though the stench of burnt hair remained.

Hashirama was still laughing. Madara whirled around, a command for his respected Hokage to shut the fuck up on the tip of his tongue, and then nearly choked.

The Hyuuga Clan Head was ostentatious enough to arrive in a palanquin carried by – Madara was sure without needing to ask – four members of the branch families of his clan. Those Hyuuga were now staring at him and Izuna, unsettlingly-pale eyes wide with shock and lips parted, while the clan head himself had poked his head out and was making a pretty good imitation of a koi waiting to be fed.

Madara ducked his head to hide the laugh that wanted to escape – he supposed that, to people who lived outside their village and never had any face-to-face interaction with Izuna and himself before this, the easy way they had used the Mangekyou and the Rinnegan to play with each other was a terrible shock. 

It reminded him of how Tobirama had called water dragons down from the sky to fill their compound’s water buckets, and how Hashirama had, with a few twitches of his fingers, created groups of cottages to appear on the Senju’s side of the Naka River during their first peace talks.

The Senju would eventually disappear, Madara knew, but Mito and Touka hadn’t lied when they told their clan’s elders that the Senju would be immortal, either. There were aspects of them that would remain forever; the only question was, of course, whether those things would be attributed to the Senju name. Or, like Madara suspected, they would become yet another ‘Uchiha characteristic.’

Something to consider when he didn’t have the Hyuuga to deal with. Madara grabbed Hashirama by the shoulder, pulling him back to his feet before digging his nails into the taller man’s shoulder to get him to stop laughing. He turned his head to the Hyuuga, opening his mouth, and—

What was the man’s name again?

“Hyuuga Hiroaki-sama,” Izuna said, sweeping into a deep bow. “We welcome you and your clan members to Konoha.”

Hiroaki. If Madara remembered correctly from the missives exchange, the kanji used for ‘hi’ was the one used by every Hyuuga Clan Head and heir, and which meant day; ‘ro’ was a silk screen, while ‘aki’ was the common kanji that meant ‘bright.’ Madara knew the meaning, when placed together, was a poetic one, referring to how Hyuuga Hiroaki was a precious silk screen that magnified the brightness of the day, and therefore implying that he was meant to lead the Hyuuga to greatness, but all Madara could think of was that, when you put silk and light together….

Well, the Hyuuga had certainly done well by naming their clan head after curtains, hadn’t they? 

“A fine village you have built, Hokage-sama,” he met Hashirama’s eyes and bowed, “Kemuri-sama,” and turned his gaze to Izuna’s left cheekbone before bending his spine as much as he had for Hashirama, “Uchiha-sama.” Now _that_ was barely a tip of the head. Madara barely swallowed back a laugh.

“You flatter us,” Hashirama replied. “Especially since you have seen little of it.”

Hadn’t Hashirama said something about the importance of not offending the Hyuuga? Why was he potentially insulting him by insinuating that his words were insincere?

“It will be a great honour,” Hyuuga Hiroaki said, “if we are allowed to take a tour of Konoha.” And how much had it cost the man to actually voice those words without gritting his teeth? Madara was almost tempted to feel bad for him, except that he was a Hyuuga _and_ he likely wanted this tour to get as much information and knowledge about the village’s infrastructure as he could without asking.

Granted, Madara would be doing exactly the same if he was in the man’s place.

“Of course, of course,” Hashirama said, turning with one arm stretched out. His Hokage cloak billowed out to brushed the Hyuuga’s ankles as he gave a smile that left his eyes cold. “We will gladly show you the attractions of our village after our negotiations.”

“Hm,” Hyuuga Hiroaki said. “I can already see one of the most infamous.” His eyes were fixed forward.

Madara didn’t need to follow the man’s pale gaze to understand what he was talking about: there was only one landmark of the village worthy of any note in that direction. He had absolutely refused to look at it ever since it was completed, and the only things he knew of it was from Izuna’s complaints that his hair took up too much cliff-space because the sculptors had insisted on capturing it in its full unruly glory. 

“It has become one of Konoha’s trademarks,” Hashirama said, smile widening even further as he slipped his hands inside his sleeves and started to walk. “A constant reminder to our citizens that we will always be here to watch over them, no matter where we are at the moment, or how many years have passed.”

“Do you truly believe such a thing is necessary?” Hyuuga Hiroaki asked.

The four Hyuuga branch members fell back to bring up the rear. Madara let out a small tendril of chakra, prodding— ah, like he had expected, these four men were all civilians.

Typical of the Hyuuga Clan Head: he brought along only the branch members who had the most reasons to believe in their inferiority compared to him.

“That there will be a time when we will all be dead, and the village still standing?” Hashirama was saying, pulling Madara’s attention back to him. When the Hyuuga Clan Head gave him a terse little nod, the Hokage threw his head back and laughed. “Do _you_ build something expecting it to last less than your own lifetime, Hyuuga-sama?”

“Please, Hokage-sama,” the Hyuuga said, “use my given name. You are, after all, the acknowledged leader of many shinobi, while I lead only my own clan.”

“Hiroaki-sama, then,” Hashirama corrected himself easily, and Madara fought to keep his lips still when he saw the minute widening of those pale eyes. The Hyuuga had clearly expected Hashirama to demur the request, or perhaps even say something to the effect that they were all equal in this village, and therefore give him an opening through which to drag more power from Hashirama. 

He was too late for such a thing: three years ago, Hashirama would have fallen into the trap almost immediately. But Konoha was no longer made of only the Senju and the Uchiha, and Hashirama soaked up knowledge and skills like a sponge when he was in an environment where becoming skilful in something would not threaten the lives around him.

“Welcome to the Hokage Tower.”

Gold hair, paler than wheat and darker than new-budded corn, flashed underneath the early morning sunlight as Hashirama’s assistant lifted his head. Pale blue eyes, the same shade as the Naka River during the deepest of winter chill, curved as the corners as he gave Hyuuga Hiroaki a smile as false as Hashirama’s.

“Yamanaka Inohiro serves as my personal secretary,” Hashirama said, waving a careless hand at the man. Madara could almost hear the moment when the Hyuuga’s heart skipped a beat, realising that the clan head of one of the vassal clans that the powerful Akimichi had held so dear had become nothing more than an errand boy for the Hokage of Konoha.

Because the Hyuuga would see absolutely nothing but the reduction in Inohiro’s status. They had kept themselves aloof from Konoha since the start, and hence deprived themselves of the opportunity to guess at the trust involved in allowing someone outside the seven of them to work so closely with Hashirama. Nara Shikami might hold the official position of the Head of the Internal Security Force, ensuring that no corruption within the government occurred, but it was Inohiro who held the most precarious position within that particular department:

The Hokage’s personal watchdog.

When Hashirama retired, Inohiro, and Izuna, would go with him. When it was Madara’s turn to don the ugly hat and robes… well, there was a rather sharp-eyed man who had volunteered as part of the Internal Security Force, a Hatake by the name of Senbakoki and who had recently, for some reason, named his newborn son _Maguwa_.

(Naming conventions were easy enough to understand. What Madara was confused by was the fact that the Hatake continued with it despite the fact that their names referred not to philosophy like the Senju or grand mountains like the Uchiha, but things you could find on a _farm._ Granted, part of that pride could be their ability to grow crops wherever their once-nomadic lifestyle had taken them, but…

_Harrow_, really? It really was Senbakoki’s luck that Madara wasn’t such a fool as to let an unorthodox naming choice blind him to a man’s virtues.)

Heat prickled at his neck. Madara let out a breath through his teeth and caught his brother’s eye with the corner of his own. Izuna’s brow arched, and Madara shook his head; his thoughts were long and meandering and ultimately irrelevant to the coming meeting. Which, he supposed, said a great deal about how much he cared about whether or not the Hyuuga joined Konoha or not.

If it had been up to him, he would have gladly refused them entry so that they were forced to linger outside the village, either forced to beg for scraps of missions that Konoha would refuse, or to depend so wholly on the income that their civilians brought in that their much-vaunted Byakugan rotted in their heads.

Anther breath. He tore his gaze away from staring holes into the back of the Hyuuga’s head, tipping his head back.

Gone was the squat cottage of three years ago. In its place, and sprawling all around it, was a long building with thatched roofs and covered with windows; Tobirama’s Academy that had completed building only a year ago and had only accepted its first batch of students a few months back.

Behind it was a building shaped like the water barrels found in Uchiha forges and made of stone carried from Uchiha mines. Senju influence could be found in the utilitarian and unpainted grey of the stone, the dull squares that served as windows, and the wood used for the roofs, but the entire building was painted in the crimson of the Sharingan, and there were subtle variations in the paint that hinted towards flames. 

“An interesting choice,” the Hyuuga murmured, “to place your main administrative building behind the Academy.”

There were other things here that he might find interesting too, Madara thought sardonically: the carved faces that loomed right behind the Hokage Tower, the Senju compound stretching out to the east, and the Uchiha compound that beckoned westward.

“Every shinobi of Konoha passes by here daily,” Izuna said, hands folded in his sleeves, “whether it is to report a successful mission or to pick up a new one. We placed the Hokage Tower behind the Academy to remind ourselves—”

“The future we’re fighting for,” Hashirama cut in abruptly. “That we have come this far, and fought so hard, because we wanted a world where children did not need to suffer.” He let out a soft chuckle. “A world where they need not be buried underneath the debts accrued by their ancestors, or trapped within the roles imposed upon them by their supposed elders and betters.”

The four members of the Hyuuga branch families walking behind them stiffened so subtly that if Madara hadn’t been watching for it, he would have missed it.

“A lofty goal,” the Hyuuga Clan Head said, voice very stiff.

“One that is honourable,” Madara said, and did not stop one side of his mouth from quirking up as the bastard in front of him twitched. “As I’m sure you would agree, Hiroaki-san.”

“Why, you—” he whirled around, lips drawn back to bare his teeth.

“Madara is my designated successor,” Hashirama said, crushing the Hyuuga’s protests before he could even give them form. “The future Nidaime Hokage once I decide that he looks more fetching in this robe and hat than I do.”

Snorting, Madara crossed his arms. “I will take the position,” he drawled, “but you will have to kill me first before I wear those atrocities, Hashirama.”

“Well,” Hashirama said, grinning out of the corner of his mouth at him, “I still have some time to convince you of the merits of this outfit.”

A muscle twitched at the corner of the Hyuuga’s mouth. It must be killing him, Madara thought, amused, to not ask about how long Hashirama would be staying as Hokage.

“In your dreams,” Madara snorted.

Susurration of wood against wood rang out between them before a click decisively ended that topic of conversation. Inohiro bowed low and stepped back, and Hashirama swept into the office of the Hokage and the Kemuri.

_Lucky that I’ve learned how to handle him_, he remembered Izuna telling him out of the corner of his mouth when they had all taken their first steps into this place. _Or else I would end up ruining everything by killing Hashirama within the first week of working with him_.

The room was a hexagon: the door was set in the middle of one wall, and a massive ceiling-to-floor window took up the entirety of the opposite wall, the glass polished to a gleam by the mixed-clan civilians who were given the honour of keeping this place suitable for guests. 

Wood clicked against wood as Inohiro closed the door. As if on cue, Hashirama strode to the left of the window and took his seat behind the Hokage’s desk, which was covered with scrolls like it had been since this place had been broken in by Hashirama. Izuna half-walked, half-glided to the right, the hems of his long sleeves brushing across the edge of his desk before he settled into seiza behind it.

Madara stepped forward. When the Hyuuga’s eyes darted towards him, he spread out a hand and gestured at the two cushions set out in front of them, one in front of the other. In this position, he watched the Hyuuga realise, they would face the window, looking out towards the village. There was neither need nor method for him to face the Hokage or the Kemuri without turning. Unless, of course, he used the Byakugan.

Which the Hyuuga couldn’t, because he was hemmed in from both sides. And once Madara took his position behind him, he would be entirely trapped, with the only form of escape available being the expensive windows that were Uzushio’s gifts to Konoha.

When Inohiro retreated to stand next to the door, Hashirama’s Hokage hat clutched in his hands, the Hyuuga branch members spread out to flank him with their eyes fixed on their clan head and backs nearly touching the wall. Madara wondered if they had been ordered to do so with some minor signal or another, or if it was instinct by now to fit themselves into such a position. He pondered, too, if the clan head felt safer with his clan members supposedly protecting his back, or if it was yet another danger that he needed to keep track of.

“Would you like some tea?” Hashirama asked, lifting the kettle he kept at his desk with two fingers on the handle.

The Hyuuga opened his mouth. Then he seemed to reconsider his words, because he clicked his teeth back together, and gave a short, stiff nod. Hashirama smiled, placed the kettle back down, and retrieved a tiny bell from underneath his desk. A soft, tinkling sound rang out.

Another_ click_ as the door slid back open, and familiar footsteps stepped into the room. Madara kept his eyes fixed upon the Hyuuga’s shoulders, resisting the urge to smirk at Shiomi as she walked past him, carrying a tray that held four smaller ones, each with a teapot and cup. She paused in front of the Hyuuga, some discomfort flitting deliberately over her fingers.

“Ah,” Hashirama drawled. “I nearly forgot.” His fingers twitched, and the wooden floorboards in front of the Hyuuga warped, juddering. Shiomi took a delicate step back just as the wood grew upwards and reshaped itself into a tiny tea-table. The edges, Madara noticed, were carved with little suns like the Hyuuga’s crest.

Tension twisted in the Hyuuga’s shoulders. Then Izuna snapped his fingers, eyes flashing red for the briefest of moments, and black flames sparked into being in the small stove Hashirama had pulled out from his desk. Metal clacked against metal as Hashirama lifted the kettle’s lid, and he frowned.

“May I, Hokage-sama?” Inohiro asked. When Hashirama nodded without turning, Inohiro summoned water from the next room – from a bowl that Tobirama had filled in the morning for this very purpose – and sent it, rope-like, to coil and settle into the kettle. 

The Hyuuga was clutching onto the edge of his new chabudai so tightly that Madara was surprised that he hadn’t broken his own bones.

“I understand,” he said, voice sounding as if he had to force every word through a closed throat. Behind Madara, the four Hyuuga branch family members stiffened even further, the air around them tense enough to snap. “You have no more need to demonstrate your power, Hokage-sama, Kemuri-sama. I understand you perfectly.”

“You puzzle me, Hiroaki-sama,” Hashirama said, fingertip tracing the fat curve of the kettle. “What is it that you understand?”

Lifting his eyes, Madara nodded as Shiomi set down the last of the trays in front of him, and she bent her knees before sweeping out of the room. Inohiro closed the door behind her. 

“We, the Hyuuga, are at a disadvantage in these negotiations with Konoha,” the Hyuuga gritted out. “Do you find joy, Hokage-smaa, in stripping good men of their dignity?”

“That has never been our intention,” Hashirama said. A tiny vine peeked from his sleeve and curled around the handle of the kettle. The verdant green stem immediately started to brown from the contact with the heated iron, and Hashirama crooked his finger, coaxing the small plant to wrap around the digit instead. “We have little use for broken men, much less broken clans.”

The Hyuuga dragged in a sharp breath. “I find that difficult to believe,” he said, “given that you demand of us to get rid of one of the greatest pillars of the clan.”

“Is the Caged Bird Seal,” Hashirama asked, now trying to coax the tiny white buds coiled around his fingers into blooming, “truly that essential to the Hyuuga?”

“The history of the seal is the history of the clan,” the Hyuuga said, elbows jutting out as he, presumably, folded his hands on the chabudai. “It is one of the few seals that could not be traced to the Uzushio; a true Hyuuga invention.”

“That is not Hokage-sama’s question,” Izuna said. His eyes were still black, but had to bite back another smirk when he saw the man jerk as if fighting against the urge to rear back to escape the weight of that stare. “What we want to know, Hyuuga-sama, is if the Hyuuga is a clan _defined_ by their use of the Caged Bird Seal.”

“It is difficult for me to answer such a question,” the Hyuuga said, “when I do not understand your fixation on something that has always belonged to the Hyuuga.”

Was— did they think that Konoha wanted to _steal_ their horrific seal? Madara opened his mouth, clicked it back shut at the minute shake of Izuna’s head, and let out a long breath when his little brother said:

“I believe it will be best to let Nii-san explain.”

“This village is built to provide safety for all of its inhabitants,” Madara said, knowing his cue well by now. “Unless only the Hyuuga Main Family plans to move to Konoha, giving their branch families complete independence from them in the process…”

He could practically hear the heartbeats of said members of the Hyuuga speed up.

“That,” the Hyuuga Clan Head bit out, “is not our intention.”

“If you intend to join Konoha,” Madara continued, “to live under our name, to take missions from the hands of our Hokage and Kemuri, to have your clans’ finances bolstered by the funds of the village…” He tapped, just once, on the chabudai that Hashirama had suddenly remembered to grow for him. “You must do your part to ensure the safety of your own branch members.”

“The Caged Bird Seal is for the safety of the Hyuuga.”

“So we have gathered,” Madara said. “But I do not understand your meaning, Hiroaki-sama.” A deliberate pause. “Perhaps it is because a woman introduced the concept to me.”

“A woman?” the Hyuuga Clan Head barked, sounding incredulous.

“Mito,” Madara said. “Hashirama’s wife.”

“You allow what a _woman_ says dictate how you rule the village?” The Hyuuga might as well have said: _You allow a woman to dictate _me_?_

“Yes,” Hashirama said, and did not look up from where he was still toying with the plant that was now wound around all five of his fingers.

“Surely you understand—”

“Do you admire the infrastructure of the village, Hiroaki-sama?” Izuna interrupted. “The architecture? The existence of the school that we passed through as we headed up here to the office of Konoha’s leaders?”

“I have had little time to truly admire it in full,” the Hyuuga said, tone betraying his confusion despite how confident he was trying to sound. “But the building of the village itself must have been a great undertaking, involving many—”

“The blueprints of the village were drawn by a single person,” Izuna interrupted. “That same person crafted our water systems, designed the architecture of the majority of the residences here, and even drew up the curriculum for our Academy.” His chin dipped to his clavicle, and his smile was sharp. “Nii-san’s concubine.”

“Not _besshitsu, _Izuna,” Madara corrected. “But _aishou_.”

“Aishou,” Izuna nodded at him with a small roll of the eyes. “This village, Hiroaki-sama, had its philosophy and standards defined by a wife, and its shape designed by a concubine.” His nail clicked just once on top of his desk, and his smile was very sharp. “I am sure you understand what we are telling you.”

“Is your concubine not a man, Uchiha Madara?” the Hyuuga asked without turning around.

“He is,” Madara acknowledged. “But you would be a fool to harp upon that fact, Hiroaki-san, because I am perfectly aware of the gender of my own concubine.” He paused, and then decided to throw a man a bone. “Surely you are not so blind as to have missed our actual meaning.”

Steam started to waft from the spout of the kettle. Madara watched the white trail curl towards the ceiling, waiting, even as he steered his mind away from lingering too much about the word _blind_.

(He might not be able to cure Tobirama’s blindness, but he would— he could—) 

“Do you enforce such standards,” the Hyuuga said finally, “upon every clan that wishes to join?”

“Yes,” Hashirama said, the word heavy as a rock dropped from the sky to break through the ceiling.

“Are you aware of your own tyranny?” the Hyuuga demanded. “Your hypocrisy?”

“Please, Hiroaki-san,” Madara said, barely keeping himself from drawling. “Enlighten us.”

“You demand that we Hyuuga give up the Caged Bird Seal to conform to your standards,” the Hyuuga said, facing straight ahead and – Madara guessed – barking in the direction of the window. “You state the reason for it is safety, yet how can we Hyuuga be safe without the Seal?”

“Throughout our negotiations,” Hashirama said, “you have never told us why such a thing is necessary.” His tone was idle, but his sharp gaze was anything but.

“I would have thought it obvious,” the Hyuuga said. “The Caged Bird Seal ensures that the Byakugan cannot be stolen. It keeps the lives of the branch members safe, for no one will attack them in an attempt to steal their eyes.” He paused. “Surely you understand, Kemuri-sama, Uchiha-sama. The Uchiha fear bloodline thieves as well.”

“Not so much that we would force the majority of our clan into near-slavery to keep our dojutsu out of the hands of outsiders,” Izuna said, mild.

“And that is not a reason for accusing us of hypocrisy,” Madara pointed out.

“Do you truly wish me to state your failings explicitly?” the Hyuuga spat.

“Please, Hiroaki-san,” Madara spread out his hands. “Do so.”

Taking a deep breath, the Hyuuga squared his shoulders. “Very well,” he nodded. “You force your standards of safety on us by threatening to _subjugate_ us to _your _idea of correct behaviour… supposedly for our protection and benefit.” He let out a soft, mocking chuckle. “Yet you refuse to accept a centuries-long tradition that has been proven, over and over, to truly keep the Hyuuga safe.”

“You have absolutely no need to join Konoha,” Hashirama said, pouring hot water into his tea pot. When he crooked his fingers in the direction of the door, Inohiro came forward and picked up the kettle. 

“That is nominally true,” the Hyuuga said. “But if we do not join you, we will eventually have to stop being shinobi due to lack of missions, or starve entirely if you ever decide to convince merchants and nobles to not buy Hyuuga paintings.” He spread out his hands. “How is that a choice at all?”

“Do you give a choice to the members of the branch families?” Hashirama asked, sounding genuinely curious.

“We do not force clan members to take the seal,” the Hyuuga said. “Those who decide, at twelve years old, to reject the Seal can do so. They are even allowed to leave the clan if that is their wish.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “But they must, of course, remove their eyes so they couldn’t be stolen by bloodline thieves.”

“The only choice for a twelve year old branch member,” Madara said slowly, “is to gouge out their own eyes, at which point they are encouraged to die in some way because they can no longer contribute to the clan,” the Hyuuga sound similar enough to the Senju for him to guess that, “or they are enslaved by your Seal.”

“What right have you to judge us,” the Hyuuga threw back, “when you are right now doing precisely the same to us? Either we enslave ourselves to your ridiculous ideas of _safety_, or we starve!”

Hashirama threw his head back and laughed, the sound sharp and harsh. “You have the choice to leave the Land of Fire,” he said, head cocked to the side and dark eyes fixed upon the Hyuuga. “Any of the other Hidden Villages would be glad to have one of the three great dojutsus currently in existence.”

“The Mizukage,” Inohiro murmured as he stood from Madara’s chabudai, “is rumoured to be interested in collecting kekkai genkai for his village.”

“What right have you to—”

“The right given to us,” Izuna said, smiling over the rim of his steaming teacup, “by our possession of two bijuu entirely loyal to us. The right given to us by every other shinobi clan of the Land of Fire having joined Konoha. The right given by even the Akimichi allowing the _Head_ of their vassal clan,” he made a wave towards Inohiro, who gave a small bow, “to become nothing more than an errand boy for the Hokage.”

Inohiro’s face did not change. Madara reminded himself to never play cards or tiles against him.

“Power,” the Hyuuga said. “You would force us into giving up an integral part of ourselves, a vital part of our history, because of the power you hold?”

Hashirama let out that dark laugh again. “Hiroaki-_sama_,” he drawled, “you would have your branch members give up their freedoms and their ability to refuse your orders for the sake of keeping their own eyes in their heads. You would have them live shackled by the fear that they will have to suffer pain harsh enough to completely incapacitate them if they ever displease you so that they would not have to be torn from their families and be made to survive, blind and nigh helpless, in the wilderness.”

Those words threatened a surge of memories of the first few days of dealing with Tobirama’s blindness. Madara dug his nails into his palms and forced himself to _not_ go down that particular line of thinking. The tiny wounds on his fingers ached sharply, and he ignored that, too.

(Maybe Mito was right: this was becoming an obsession. Luckily, he was almost finished.)

“Punishments have never been eked out for no reason,” the Hyuuga said stiffly. “If the Seal is activated, it will be due to the branch member breaking specific rules of the clan.”

“Who writes the rules, Hiroaki-san?” Madara arched a brow even though he knew the man couldn’t see it. “Who ensures that the clan head follows them?”

“Are you calling into question my judgment of my own clan members?” the Hyuuga bristled.

“He calls into question,” Izuna said, leaning forward with his elbows on his desk, “the judgment of a shinobi who would arrive in a shinobi village while carried by _civilians_.” His lips curved up into a mirthless smile. “A man for whose speed, strength, and power should be more than enough to carry four civilians of his clan upon his back, but who instead sits in a palanquin and forces them to carry his weight instead.”

“Call us tyrannical or hypocritical if you wish,” Hashirama said, his dark eyes very sharp upon the Hyuuga. “The options Konoha offers the Hyuuga will not change: if you wish to join us, you must rid yourselves of the Caged Bird Seal entirely – removing it from all currently-living branch members, eradicating the practice of placing it on twelve-year-old members of branch families, and erasing every and all record that details how it is placed and how it is created.”

“Perhaps we are hypocritical tyrants,” Izuna said, “but we do so to give you a taste of your own bitter medicine, Hyuuga-sama.” The click of his ceramic teacup punctuated his words.

“Inohiro,” Hashirama said. “Please escort Hiroaki-sama out.” He paused. “You may give him a tour of the village if that is your wish.”

“Understood, Hokage-sama,” Inohiro said. “Is there anything else?”

“What does Shikami-san say about all this?” Izuna piped up.

“Please rest assured, Kemuri-sama,” Inohiro dipped his head down so low that his head swept down to hide his face, “if Shikami-kun had any objections to your actions today, I would not have opened the door of this office for you.”

“What—” the Hyuuga started, unnaturally-light eyes growing wide.

Smiling, Inohiro retrieved a hand from his sleeve and held it out. “Walk with me, Hyuuga-sama,” he said. “And I will explain.” 

The idiot stared at that outstretched hand before his gaze flicked over to Hashirama, and then Izuna. Something about their posture – Hashirama was now indolently lying on the floor playing cat’s cradle with the vines on his fingers, while Izuna was sipping his tea with his eyes closed – must have convinced him, because he gave a sharp nod and stood.

When wood clicked against wood to signal the door closing behind them, Madara let out a long sigh. He had been watching the four Hyuuga branch members as they turned to follow their clan head; none of them had hesitated, much less turned back to look at anyone else remaining in the room.

Then again, they wouldn’t be Hyuuga, or branch members, if they had done anything of the sort.

“Now we wait,” Izuna said, voice dipping low into a mock-ominous tone that had Madara instinctively rolling his eyes.

“Mito thinks that Hiroaki will have to die before the Hyuuga join Konoha,” Hashirama said, sounding like he was musing out loud.

Madara blinked. “Why?” he asked. “I would say that his death would lead them _not_ joining Konoha, because the clan would collapse into civil war.” He paused. “Mind you, I won’t mind if they do.”

“Hiroaki’s wife is a branch family member who carries the Seal,” Izuna said, clearly ignoring the last part of Madara’s statement. “His three children from that wife are all girls; the eldest is eleven, and it’s already determined that she’ll receive the Seal next year.” He tipped his head back and drained his tea like it was sake. “His current heir is a two-year-old boy from a concubine.”

“Kill the clan head, and the leadership passes on to an infant,” Madara murmured. “The concubine is also from the branch family, and carries the Seal?”

“Of course,” Izuna said.

Madara supposed that he should feel horrified at the idea of a clan head being murdered by his own clan members, or even his own _family_. He knew he should feel at least some kind of indignation. 

But, looking down into the depths of his teacup, he just felt sick. “How could he…” he swallowed hard. “They are his _wife. _His concubine. _His own daughters_.”

“You heard him,” Hashirama said. “It’s for their protection.” He let out a long breath. “You know how easy it is to cook up justifications for actions, Madara.”

Yeah. He knew. Madara closed his eyes, and fell backwards until he was lying on the floor and staring at the ceiling. “This village was born when Tobirama offered himself to even out the power imbalance between the Senju and the Uchiha,” he reminded. “And look at how tyrannical and hypocritical we are being, now.”

“I’d say we’re justified,” Hashirama said, and then barked a laugh. “Or maybe we’re not. Who knows, really?”

“As long as you’re not trying to make the world obey your every whim, Hashirama,” Izuna drawled, gaze flicking towards his Hokage with his elbow on the chabudai, “we’re doing fine.”

“But what if I _want_ to make them do that?” Hashirama asked, a grin twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“Then I quit as your Kemuri,” Izuna shot back immediately. “You get stressed out enough from handling one shinobi village; trying to rule the world would make your head explode, and I refuse to be the one to clean up the resulting mess.”

“Your faith in me warms my heart,” Hashirama drawled, grinning in full now.

Rolling his eyes at the two of them, Madara tapped his fingers loudly against the wood in front of him. “Can we get back to the topic at hand?”

“Fine,” Izuna said. Standing up, he moved in front of his desk and promptly dropped back down to sprawl in front of it, back leaning against one of the legs. “Uzushio sent us a letter.”

“What?” Madara blinked. 

“It’ll be the fourth anniversary of Isobu choosing Taji as his junchuuriki next month,” Izuna said, spreading his arms out in an expansive shrug. “Hayase-sama has invited you and Tobirama for the celebrations.”

“I thought that such things are for you and Hashirama to deal with?” Madara arched a brow.

Hashirama snorted. “Uzushio has only ever invited Tobirama and you,” he reminded unnecessarily. “They might give excuses about how they can’t imagine taking Izuna and me away from the village when we’re so vital to its workings, but they’ve only ever wanted you two there.”

“Hmph,” Madara grunted, crossing his arms. “Izuna, I said to return back to our original topic. Not start a completely new one.”

“I _am _going back to the original topic,” Izuna protested. “It’s relevant if you think about it.” When Madara lifted a lazy eyebrow, Izuna let out a loud snort and shook his head hard enough for a few strands of hair to cover his eyes. “Think about it, Nii-san; Uzushio invites us not only because of what we’ve done, but because Konoha has made itself impossible to ignore.”

“The world watches us,” Hashirama said, voice very soft and staring through the spaces in between his splayed fingers. 

“Precisely,” Izuna threw out, the word crisp. “Our power means that our every move is monitored,” and replicated, Madara thought, lips curling despite himself, “and if we ever reach a point in which we behave like tyrants…”

“The other villages will take any and all excuse to move against us,” Hashirama finished, eyes fixed upon the ceiling. “No one will ever forget Yamagakure.” 

“They won’t forget because they can’t,” Izuna corrected. “Because _we_,” he gave Hashirama a significant look. “made sure that they won’t ever forget, and so they would make sure that we won’t, either.”

Konoha_gakure_. Madara scowled instinctively. 

Not at the reminder of the destruction he had caused – his reactions had dulled to nothingness by now – but at the thought of the other countries daring to think that they had any right to dictate Konoha’s actions. If Kirigakure had the gall to declare their displeasure – or worse, war – against Konoha because Konoha had done something they didn’t like, Madara would…

Well, he would fight, and in the process of fighting, destroy it. Either by accident or entirely on purpose.

A sound like a kettle reaching boil came from Hashirama’s direction. “You won’t let me flatten the continent, would you, Izuna?” he asked.

“No,” Izuna said, immediate and flat. “Get that idea out of your head.”

“I won’t let you, either,” Madara added.

Hashirama made a small, huffy noise that greatly resembled what a pout would sound if it was audible. “Ugh,” he said eloquently, and Madara fought down a laugh.

“Uzushio is allowed to have an opinion,” he said once he had regained control over his voice, “but no one else.” 

“But it’s still up to us how much of their opinion we’re willing to consider,” Izuna said, also sounding like he was an inch away from bursting into laughter. “Isn’t it?”

“We already have the Internal Security Force,” Hashirama said. “Those are already more opinions than we’re used to.”

“You’re missing the point again,” Izuna heaved a dramatic sigh.

Hashirama let out a shaky chuckle. “No, I understand,” he said, stretching out his arm. The plant growing along the length had thin, green stems, and the tiny buds were of a brilliantly purple shade. “But I’m not longer a child, Izuna; I might want peace throughout the world, but I know now that there is only so much I can do to make it happen.”

As he spoke, the petals of the vine started to unfurl. They were large and droopy-looking, immediately hanging over the side of the limb. Madara took one look and could identify it immediately.

Torikabuto. One of the most poisonous plants that could be found in the entirety of the continent, and Hashirama was, as always, treating it like a particularly favoured pet.

“Every country looks after its own interests,” Hashirama continued, “and every clan prioritises their own wellbeing and survival. Thus, a village must do the same.” His lips twitched up into a mirthless, bitter smile. “No matter how much the world will change.”

Madara rolled his eyes. “Oh please,” he drawled. “You’re just irritated that you can’t wave a hand and force war to go into extinction.” He paused. “Or is it that you’re frustrated that despite the regeneration jutsu, despite Kurama and Matatabi, despite everything we’ve done—”

“All of Tobirama’s ideas,” Hashirama interrupted. “All of our efforts.” His fingertip brushed across the top of one hood-like bloom before trailing down the stem to rub one of the roots between his thumb and index finger. “Yet war still hovers at our door.” 

The root, Madara knew, that was the most poisonous part of the plant. He let his mouth twitch up into a smile. “Tobirama might have phrased his idea for an undying army to be for the extinction of war,” he said, “but you know just as well as I do that he has never been foolish enough to believe such a thing to be possible.” Linking his fingers together, he rested his elbows on top of the chabudai.

“Konoha will never go to war,” he pronounced, “because no one will dare to raise arms against us.”

“And because,” Izuna tipped his head back and drained his second cup of tea, “we’ve made sure that our own people get enough benefits of being part of Konoha that they will never attempt to sell us out.” He smiled, full of teeth. “This is the closest we’ll have to peace.”

“Ah, but,” Hashirama clicked his tongue, “peace throughout the world has always sounded like such a nice thing to wish for.” 

“Shut up,” Izuna rolled his eyes. “Anyway, Nii-san, you haven’t answered my question.”

“Mm?” Madara blinked. “You had a question?”

“Are you and Tobirama going to go to Uzushio?”

Now that was a question. Tobirama hadn’t needed to go ever since Hayase and Taji had, with Madara and Tobirama’s help, negotiated a series of agreements with Isobu that resulted in the bijuu permanently staying in Uzushio. Given that Isobu was a water-based bijuu, that meant that Uzushio now had their own personal _arashi no shihaisha-sama_ and no longer had any need to poach Madara’s beloved for months every year.

That didn’t stop Uzushio from attempting to entice Tobirama back to their island by inviting him for the most ridiculous of reasons. This little anniversary of Isobu’s was likely the most legitimate reason Madara was going to hear all year.

“Should I take that as a ‘no’?” Izuna asked, sounding amused.

“You should take that as ‘I’ll ask Tobirama if he wants to go,’” Madara shot back, slanting his eyes towards his little brother. “It’s not only my schedule that needs to be cleared.” He set his hands on the chabudai. “So, if you’ll excuse me…”

“Fat hope, Nii-san,” Izuna said, and Hashirama grinned, sharp and wide, as vines twisted out from the sides of the chabudai to wrap around Madara’s wrists. “We have an entire clan agreement with the Hyuuga to draft, remember?”

“Why do I have to do paperwork when I’m not the Hokage yet?” Madara demanded, narrowing his eyes at Hashirama. “I refuse to let you dump the position on me before you have finished your five years of service. We can’t go back on our word to the village.”

“I won’t retire early, don’t worry,” Hashirama said, still flat on his back but now also smirking at Madara. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t dump the paperwork on you.”

Madara threw him a rude gesture as one of torikabuto vines crawled up the chest of drawers tucked into a corner of the room and pulled open the top one to retrieve Madara’s brush and inkstone. But even he knew that its meaning was very much blunted by how he was already shifting on the cushion, moving into seiza in preparation to start work.

Hashirama, the bastard, only laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [drelfina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drelfina/pseuds/drelfina) helped me come up with the names of the ‘Kemuri’ of the other shinobi villages. If not for her, that section would not exist. She also wrote the Hyuuga situation from the POV of the mentioned Hyuuga wife in this fic: [_Sentiment_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24229255). Please go and read it. 8D
> 
> Hiroaki is a common name, but the way I have the kanji – 日絽明 (day, silk gauze, bright) – makes it an _extremely_ uncommon name. And yes, every Hyuuga meant to become Main Family has ‘Hi’ as the first character of their name. The Hyuuga succession crisis of canon has another separate, implied dimension contained within ‘Hinata’ and ‘Hiashi’ versus ‘Hanabi’ that is never directly stated because Kishimoto’s Japanese audience would’ve figured it out just by looking at the names. 
> 
> Senbakoki - 千歯扱き (literally: “thousand” + “teeth” + “hard handling”) – is an actual [primitive machine](https://oldphotosjapan.com/photos/244/threshing-rice) used to thresh rice. Maguwa - 馬鍬 (literally: “horse” + “rake”) – is also a farm tool, a kind of harrow that’s pulled by livestock over land. The reason why I named them after farm tools is because ‘Sakumo’ means crops (_Sakumotsu_ (作物) specifically), while ‘Kakashi’ means scarecrow. ‘Hatake’ means field, so the naming convention is, obviously, ‘stuff you find on a farm.’


	29. and cut through land

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** This chapter, and the next one, is where I go all out with regards to the ideas of gender, class, and roles as outlined in the entire fic. More specifically, this chapter and the next cover gender theory in both the Western and East Asian senses (trust me, they’re different) and rejects both sides.
> 
> To put it plainly: this chapter is all about genderfuckery that boils down to the separation of biological sex from gender roles (i.e. a man as a wife, a woman as a husband), as well as implications of mpreg that makes that to more than just abstract notions. 
> 
> I’ve been laying seeds for this ever since the start; it’s less that this came from nowhere, and more that I’m only being overt now. There is, after all, only one way to solve the issues of Izuna’s inability to marry Touka and Madara’s inability to raise Tobirama as wife in one fell swoop.

“No matter how ingenious a seal is,” Mito said, leaning forward and tapping her fingertips on the chabudai, “it is still mindless. I would’ve thought that you know that better than me, Tobirama.”

“Of course I do,” Tobirama retorted immediately, face scrunching up at the chastisement implied in Mito’s tone. “If seals could truly think as humans do, then there would be no more need of the hospital: the regeneration seal would have ensured that all injured bodies were returned to their previous conditions.”

Every shinobi in Konoha had been marked with the regeneration seal that took chakra from either Mito or Tobirama – based on whether they preferred foxes or cats – and then converted it to the regenerative-type chakra first created by Hashirama’s body, and then immediately healed whatever wound or injury existed. 

As the seal was mindless, massive injuries were always repaired horribly: a shinobi who had taken an explosive tag to the torso would have his organs rebuilt, but generally in the wrong places. The Hokage had only taken missions directly from the Daimyo for the past three years, but there were already more than ten cases of such shinobi arriving back in the village in that state and having to be immediately repaired.

The worst of them, Tobirama recalled, was an Aburame who had found himself with an extra metre of intestines and knees where his ankles should be after his lower body had been blown off by a mix of explosive tags and gunpowder.

But he lived to laugh about it after the medics had repaired his body, and that was more than what anyone could claim before Konoha’s inception. _And_ the medics of Konoha had become the foremost experts of setting right a body that had grown or healed wrong, which had proven a very lucrative business among the civilian nobility of the Land of Fire, who tended to throw at Konoha whichever child or relative they had who was bow-legged or had a cleft lip. 

Though he still wasn’t happy with the seal, he knew well enough to stop trying to improve it. Especially since all of his attempts to isolate the exact component of Hashirama’s chakra or DNA that made sure that his body healed _correctly_ had failed.

“I take it that your experiments with adjusting time had failed?” Mito asked. Her silhouette showed elbows jutting out from her form, and Tobirama had enough experience with his chakra sight by now to immediately understand that she was sipping her tea as she spoke.

“The only successful seal made that can touch time is that which freezes it,” Tobirama said, leaning forward until his elbows rested on his chabudai. “Any other attempts to adjust time, whether to move it forward to turn it backwards, have too many dangers.”

“And thus, our hospital and medics remain useful,” Mito said, and Tobirama had no need to see her face to know that her lips were twitching.

“Precisely,” he nodded. “But I’m not here to talk about the regenerative seal, Aneue.”

“Have you taken my advice to seek out other sources of data?” Mito asked.

“Yes, Aneue,” Tobirama nodded. “Though the data I gain from the others aren’t nearly as detailed.” He paused, feeling the weight of her unspoken question in her gaze on him, before he sighed. “If I want more intimate details on the changes in their body, I would need to give them an explanation as to _why_, and I would rather not do so yet.”

“Yet?”

“I find explaining tedious,” Tobirama elaborated. “Especially in the abstract.”

“You did not find explaining the regenerative seal to be that difficult,” Mito pointed out.

“It wasn’t an abstract notion when I introduced it,“ Tobirama reminded. “The proof that it works was right in front of you through of fact of my living, breathing form.” Mito’s chakra spiked with something that was almost like mirth at Tobirama’s reference to the first time the regeneration seal had proved its worth.

“Besides,” Tobirama continued, waving a hand. “Anija and Madara were the ones who announced it to the village, and ensured that everyone was paying full attention so that I only had to explain it once.” Mito’s nail clicked lightly on the wood of the chabudai, and Tobirama let out a long sigh and shook his head. “I have gathered more than enough data from chakra sense alone, Aneue.”

“Chakra senses are limited when it comes to distinguishing physical changes,” Mito challenged. Before Tobirama could protest, she picked up the chabudai and moved it to the side. “Come, give me your hand.” When he obediently stretched it out, she grabbed it, and pressed his palm hard against her own body.

“Are you telling me, Tobirama, that your chakra sense is capable of feeling exactly how much uterine muscles need to stretch?” Something shifted beneath his hand, chakra sparking bright underneath his eyelids. “Or the other ways in which a woman’s body changes during pregnancy?”

“It does not,” Tobirama said. Mito’s fingers were wrapped around his wrist, keeping his hand resting on top of her swollen belly as his future niece or nephew’s foot pressed against his palm. “But neither does interrogating the other women, or even questioning the midwives. Their focus is mostly on dealing with the symptoms and complications instead of the causes and the workings of the body that lead to them.”

In fact, he wasn’t sure if he even needed to know all of those details in the first place. Sometimes Mito’s behaviour for the past month puzzled him greatly: surely she knew the necessities of the information needed to make a body transformation seal, which meant that all of the extra dumping was…

Had Mito been using his research topic to _complain_ to him about the discomforts of pregnancy?

Well, if she was, Tobirama didn’t mind. Even though he might not need the information now, it would be helpful for the future.

He gave himself a minute mental shake of the head, and returned to paying attention to his older sister.

True to form, Mito had been waiting. “Fair enough,” she said, picking up where they had left off without even bothering to mention Tobirama’s silent interlude. “So, how have you been conducting your research?” 

Her fingers splayed out again, releasing him, but Tobirama only shifted his hand down, fascinated by the way Hashirama and Mito’s child stretched and shifted and made their presence very much known even before birth. He had been far too young to recall Mother being pregnant with Itama or Kawarama, and he had never been allowed near women in that state in the Senju – he was a shinobi, a weapon and killer, and whatever medical ninjutsu he learned had nothing to do with pregnancy or birth – so this was his first chance to witness a life grow from what seemed like absolutely nothing.

“Touka-nee brings me books from beyond the oceans whenever she visits the capital,” Tobirama answered, far too aware of the spike of mirth in Mito’s chakra at the long stretch of silence. 

“Have you told her why?”

“She did not ask,” Tobirama shook his head. “I suspect that Touka-nee has simply assumed that I am currently obsessed with learning about human anatomy so that I can prevent deaths.” He paused. “She asked me if I was trying to make sure that even deaths by childbirth are reduced in the village.”

“What did you tell her?” Mito asked.

“That it’s something I’m working on,” Tobirama shrugged. “Though it’s not much work to be done: the majority of maternal deaths are caused either by haemorrhage or infections resulting from ruptures; the regenerative seal can take care of the former, while there are plenty of jutsu already to solve the latter.” His fingers slid across the expanse of Mito’s abdomen, chasing his niece or nephew’s foot. “The adjustments I have to make are to ensure that the jutsu to eradicate infection can work internally as well as externally.”

“Plenty of women would be thankful for that,” Mito said, smile clear in her voice.

Tobirama let out a small noise of assent, mind already whirring. That specific phrasing had nudged at something that had been bothering him for a while now, but which he had never allowed to fully form even in his own mind. He let out a long breath through his teeth.

“What is it?” Mito asked. He wasn’t surprised that she picked up on his unease immediately; Mito had learned to read him so quickly even with half of his face permanently covered by the blindfold that it was a rare occasion when she couldn’t follow his moods.

“Do you think women would be thankful for the jutsu I’m making?” he asked. “Or would they think that I am allowing men to usurp the roles and positions that should have been theirs?” 

Mito didn’t reply immediately, making a thoughtful sound that, Tobirama knew, she made with no one else. And like every occasion when she had made it, he wanted to tell her that it wasn’t necessary for her to signal to him that she was thinking; that he could tell by her chakra or, failing that, guess based on the evidences given to him by his other senses. Even though he could no longer see her contemplative expression, he wanted to protest, he still knew when she needed time to consider her answers.

But, like every time before did, his tongue would not move. He really was far too spoiled by the overtness of her concern.

“It depends,” Mito said finally.

Tobirama cocked his head to the side. “On?”

“On whether you have considered, in your quest to allow men to become mothers, to find a way to let women become fathers as well.” Porcelain clicked against wood as Mito placed her cup down. 

Head still tilted to the side, Tobirama mourned, once again, the loss of his ability to blink and stare. “Is forgetfulness a symptom of pregnancy?” he asked tentatively.

“It can be, for some women,” Mito answered calmly. “Why do you ask?”

“Because _you _were the one who tested that jutsu for me,” Tobirama reminded. “Then again, it had been over a year ago,” months before Mito had gotten pregnant with Tobirama’s niece or nephew, because that particular jutsu was so much easier to craft than this one, “so it’s likely—”

“I did not forget,” Mito interrupted. Tobirama had a distinct sense that she was giving him one of those thin-lipped smiles that he had heard some of Konoha’s new denizens speak about in half-fearful, half-awed tones. “I was simply reminding you.”

He really wished he could blink and have the gesture have meaning. “I do not understand,” he said.

“How could you be accused of attempting to steal the roles and positions due to women,” Mito said, enunciating her words in a manner that made Tobirama scowl instinctively, “when you gave them another role, always seen as more prestigious, to occupy?” She let out a low, soft chuckle. “Even those who would immediately reject your jutsu, both of your jutsus, would be able to see for themselves the benefits that they could bring.”

Something about his posture, or even the air around him, must have alerted Mito to his confusion, because she sighed. “You do realise what you’re doing will utterly annihilate the fixedness of the roles of men and women, don’t you?” she asked, tone a little pointed. “No longer are women limited to being mothers, and no longer are men limited to being fathers.”

“Of course,” Tobirama nodded. That had been the very point of his research, after all. Not the part about the ‘fixedness of roles’ – he actually wasn’t entirely sure what that meant – but to allow himself to be a mother. 

Specifically, the mother of Madara’s children.

He dismissed the rest of the train of thought because they had been treaded over enough times that he could repeat them to himself. Instead, he focused back on Mito, opening his mouth— and was interrupted before he could speak by the flare of chakra that appeared above them.

Kurama landed on the tatami on the tips of his paws, and leaped immediately into the air before landing on Mito’s right shoulder. His nine tails wrapped around her neck like a particularly thick braided scarf before he settled down. He did not greet Tobirama and, Tobirama suspected, he didn’t even look at him. Tobirama gave him a nod, nonetheless, and turned back to his sister-in-law.

“Will my next nephew or niece be carried by Anija, then?” he asked.

Mito’s hand froze where her fingers were sunk into Kurama’s fur. Kurama’s nine tails suddenly straightened and stood vertically, as if at attention. “What do you mean by that?” Mito asked.

“Anija will retire after the end of next year,” Tobirama reasoned. “Given that Madara is already announced to be the next Hokage and you will be his Kemuri, and Anija is slated for no position except for retired Hokage, it seems far more pragmatic to let him carry the next child.” He paused, thinking. “Unless, of course, neither of you want another child aside from this one.” 

Kurama made a sound that very much, Tobirama thought, resembled choking. At the back of his mind, a presence slowly unfurled and, much like his future nephew or niece in Mito’s belly, started stretching and pressing against the edges of his mind. 

_Ani is an idiot_, Matatabi said, mental voice slurred by sleepiness. Tobirama imagined himself stroking her fur, and Matatabi settled back down easily.

“What the fuck,” Kurama swore, sounding incredulous. “What does that even mean? Fuck’s sake, Mito, do I even want to know?”

“You would know exactly what Tobirama is talking about,” Mito informed, “if you paid attention during the last few months of his visits.” When Kurama made a sound that very much seemed like a sulk – enough so that Matatabi started laughing in his mind about Mito’s ability to control Kurama – Mito let out a sigh and picked up her teacup again.

“Tobirama,” she said, turning to face him. “My answer to that question is the same as your answer to this: would _you_ let Madara carry any of your children?”

“Of course,” Tobirama nodded. “On two conditions.”

“Which are?” She somehow managed to make the rise of her eyebrow verbal.

“Firstly, that his duties are lesser than mine, which is extremely unlikely to happen.” Madara was slated to become Hokage, after all. “Secondly, he will have to offer, and that offer would have to be made because he _wants_ to do it, not because he thinks he must be fair or some sort of foolishness like that.”

“Do you think,” that distinct feeling that Mito was smiling at him had returned, “there is ever a chance of both conditions being met?”

“No,” Tobirama said. 

“What about the second condition?” Mito asked, the pad of her index finger circling the rim of her cup.

“Never.” He paused. “Ah, I see. Like Madara, Anija would never truly have the desire to do such a thing.”

“And though our upcoming schedules might make it seem more pragmatic,” Mito sipped her tea, “I do not think it is actually a practical move for Hashirama to carry any of our children.”

“But he would offer,” Tobirama said. “He might even think it to be a good idea.” He might be talking about Hashirama, or he might be about Madara; his words seemed to apply to both of them.

“Yes,” Mito said. “Out of a distorted sense of fairness, if for nothing else.”

“Fairness?” Tobirama cocked his head.

“Or guilt,” Mito said, chakra rippling in a way that suggested a shrug. “Because they believe that we have done a great deal for them, while they have done too little for us.” The tap of her fingers on the chabudai. “Hashirama will be more difficult to convince otherwise than Madara, I reckon.”

Something sparked within her chakra within that very brief pause; a small skittering that made Tobirama think that a thought had crossed Mito’s mind and was summarily dismissed because she didn’t want him to know about it.

Then again, it might just be his imagination: it had come and gone so quickly, after all.

Focusing back on the main topic, he let out a contemplative hum; a habit that he had surely picked up from everyone around him who had started doing it. “There are more factors involved than pragmatism and necessity, then, when it comes to deciding who will carry the child, or children, in a marriage,” he said.

“Yes,” Mito nodded. “But you leave that to me, Tobirama; I will think up of the ways to urge the village to easily accept the jutsus.” Her chakra spiked in a way that reminded Tobirama of all the times she had smiled at him above her teacup while he could still see. “You focus on completing the jutsu itself so we have something to sell to the village.”

Chin dropping down to his chest, Tobirama let out a long breath. His fingers curled slightly around the heavy swell that contained his future niece or nephew. Mito had another ten weeks or so to go – according to her, and Tobirama would never doubt his sister-in-law’s estimation of her own body – and he hoped, no, he _needed_—

“You’re impatient to finish,” Mito noted.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Only to someone who knows you well,” Mito said, and laid her hand on top of his on her stomach. The child kicked at his palm again, or at least it felt like a foot, and Tobirama felt something well up in his chest that he could not identify.

“You once told me it is because you wanted him to be a father,” Mito said, voice very soft. There was no need to identify the ‘he’ in that statement. “But that’s not the only reason, is it?”

“I was telling the truth then,” Tobirama said, swallowing hard. He wished that squeezing his eyes shut still had the effect of helping him calm down. He bit hard on the inside of his lip. “Now, the situation has become more… complex.”

“Mm.” The familiar click of porcelain on wood. Mito’s fingers on his cheeks, the pads smooth with the edges still rough despite the months she had spent away from active duty. Her chakra thrummed bright under her skin; her child’s practically glowed to Tobirama’s sight. Her thumbs brushed over his eyes, warm even through the cotton blindfold. Tobirama’s breath stuttered out from his lips.

“I have never once seen you fail once you have set your mind on something,” Mito murmured. “You will succeed in this, too, and upend the world.”

A laugh wrested out of his lips. “That has never been my intention,” he said. “I only wish…” he trailed off. She knew. 

She was the only one who knew in the entire village, and only because he had, at first, needed a woman to test the jutsu that would allow women to become a father and couldn’t use Touka because he needed _her_ to stay in the dark. Then, it was because she and Hashirama had decided to have their long-awaited children, and he needed the data she could give him.

He had still told no one of his plans and his experiments. But the secrets he kept now were because he didn’t want to raise false hope; he knew that there would be a few who would understand without him having to go into elaborate explanations.

That, however, would have to change soon. He had confidence now that this _would_ become a reality, because— 

“You will succeed,” Mito repeated. Her lips brushed his temple like a punctuation, a _confirmation_. “Whatever you need from me to help you do so, simply say it and it will be given.”

Once, he would have immediately denied needing anything. Once, he would have skittered away from even acknowledging that he could not gather the necessary data without help. 

“Thank you, Aneue,” he whispered now.

He would tell Touka and Madara, he thought. Even though he didn’t need their anticipation and excitement to finish the jutsu – he had enough of his own to not only finish but _perfect _it and create the variations in the back of his mind – he would tell them. Not because of necessity, but because he _wanted _to. Because he knew it would make them happy to know he was working on something like this, and he wanted to make them happy.

Yes, he decided. He would tell them today.

(It had been a few tumultuous years, but he had learned.)

The poppies had bloomed, bright blood red with hearts that shimmered with oily darkness within the shadows of the little bamboo grove that Hashirama had planted for her. Touka brushed her fingers over the curl of one petal, feeling its soft fragility, before she rocked back on her heels and stood. 

It was a blisteringly hot morning, the last of the spring winds chased away by the sun that poured down from overhead. Touka let out a long sigh, shaking a few strands of sweat-soaked hair out of her eyes.

Just in time, too: white flashed at the corner of the garden. Her lips curled into a smirk as Tobirama’s cane clacked heavily against the ring of bricks she had set into the garden’s soil. His free arm pinwheeled as he fought to keep his balance after nearly tripping over his own feet. 

“I told you to use the front gate,” she reminded, lips curling into a small smirk that she knew he couldn’t see. 

“Perhaps I should have placed this in your bedroom instead of the garden, Touka-nee,” Tobirama retorted, having already steadied himself with the tip of his cane driven into the soil and his hand splayed against the wall, right above the Hiraishin marker he had placed on the side of her house. “It would have deterred greatly from trying to trip me.” 

Touka snorted. “Nah. I’d just have become more creative with my attempts.” Brushing the last bits of dirt from her hands, she started walking towards the house. “But what made you late enough that you decided that the Hiraishin was necessary?”

“I was having an engaging conversation with Aneue and lost track of time,” Tobirama answered. He rested his hand on Touka’s arm when she nudged his ribs with an elbow, and she guided him to the platform leading up to the engawa. Bamboo cane smacked loud against the dull slats of wood as she released him, moving away so that he could make a full sweep around him. The sounds of the bamboo against the lightwood of the south and west sides of the building, he had once explained, sounded very different from those of the darker wood used for the north and east side.

She had never been able to tell the difference. Then again, she had never needed to.

(If she was someone else – Madara, perhaps, or even Hikaku – Touka would feel her anger rising at the fact that no one had ever found a way to return Tobirama his sight. Her little cousin had done so much – from planning the village practically from ground-up with his blueprints, to prevent any Uchiha from going blind due to Sharingan use – and the effects of his actions had touched so many, but it seemed that it was impossible for anyone to return the favour. If she was anyone else, Touka would rage, and possibly throws things, and attempt to treat Tobirama with enough courtesy to repay all that he had done.

But she wasn’t a foolish Uchiha. Touka might have realised that her little cousin’s list of accomplishments may not be entirely normal or natural, especially for someone his age – he hadn’t even reached twenty yet – and perhaps she was on the way to admitting that the Senju’s Wil of Fire had done much to push him so far, but she was still a Senju. And, no matter what Izuna might like to protest, so was her little cousin.

If she didn’t put up that little circle of bricks to trip him when he had placed his Hiraishin marker right in plain sight, he would have been disappointed in her.)

“I don’t sense Izuna,” Tobirama noted, head cocked to the side.

“That’s because he’s not here,” Touka said, shoving the front door open. “Why, do you need him for something?”

“No,” Tobirama shook his head, slipping out of his shoes and stepping up into the tatami-covered floor of her entrance hall in one smooth motion. “Only that it is a rare occasion that I can’t find him here.”

“He’s not here _that_ often,” Touka protested automatically. “You probably see him more than I do, given that the two of you live in the same house.”

Tobirama let out a sound that was very much like a laugh. “The only time he lives in my husband’s house,” he said, head tilted to the side and directly facing Touka, “is on the official records of residences, Touka-nee.” His big toe brushed against a cushion, and he folded himself to sit in seiza on top of it. “Most of his things are here. He lives _here_, Touka-nee, and everyone in the village knows it.”

She squeezed her eyes shut to keep some control over her temper. But the knot inside her throat simply twisted itself tighter and tighter with every breath, and she—

“Besshitsu-san.” Hikaku’s voice was low and his footsteps barely audible upon the tatami. When Touka wrenched her eyes open, she could see the other Uchiha who shared her house and her bed dropping to sit next to Tobirama. He held a tray with a teapot, faintly steaming from the spout, and three cups, and sank down to sit down on Touka’s right and Tobirama’s left.

Touka took a moment to note the gracefulness of his motions. His knees didn’t buckle or jerk as they settled on the tatami in seiza, and that, more than the fact that Hikaku was walking, reassuring Touka that Hikaku’s legs were still obeying him. 

It might have been over three years since Tobirama had regrown them using a variation of his nigh-miraculous regenerative seal, but sometimes they still caused him trouble enough that Touka’s house was built without stairs. 

When Tobirama took one of the cups, fingers curling around it, Hikaku deposited the tray on the chabudai. “You know the reasons that we insist that Izuna-sama still lives with you.” 

“I do,” Tobirama said, the word barely audible above the rim of his cup. Touka stared down at her own hand, and slowly uncurled the fingers.

“Then why do you insist?”

“Because it needs to be said aloud,” Tobirama said, calm in a way that had Touka digging her nails into her palms again. “You are the record-keeper of the Uchiha, Hikaku-san; surely you understand the necessity of spoken words.”

“What—” Too loud, far too loud. She dragged in a breath. This was not what she had expected when her little cousin’s even littler student had told her that he was coming to visit her this morning. “What makes you think that it is necessary?”

“I can feel the spikes in your chakra, Touka-nee,” Tobirama said. The clack of his cup on the mokuton-made chabudai was very loud. The dull black of his blindfold contrasted starkly with the paleness of his cheek as he turned his head to the side. “And yours too, Hikaku-san.” 

“Izuna isn’t here,” Hikaku pointed out. There was the barest tremor in his voice.

“He does not need to be,” Tobirama said, voice soft. “He will not fight to change this situation, no matter what he feels about it. It must be the two of you to make it possible for there to even be change.” Hashirama had made the chabudai out of dark wood to match the rafters and pillars of the house, Touka remembered dully. 

“Even if pushed,” Tobirama continued, as relentless as the white of his fingers on the dark wood was stark, “Izuna would admit to no desires associated to the two of you.” His nail tapped very lightly, just once. “And he is far better at dissimulation than even you, Hikaku-san.”

“His talent in that arena is great,” Hikaku murmured. “Have you spoken to him about this, besshitsu-san?”

His eyes were lowered to the tatami and his shoulders hunched inwards. Touka wanted to tell him that there was no need for him to create such signs of inoffensiveness, wanted to remind him that Tobirama couldn’t see and be fooled by it, but the knot in her chest had grown so large that it seemed to have replaced the heart that Tobirama had regrown for her. 

“I have no need to do so,” Tobirama said, still in that soft, calm tone. “I know Izuna well enough to predict his answers by now.”

He was right, Touka thought dully. If confronted with the fact that he spent far more time in the Senju compound than his own, Izuna would only laugh and tease, pretending that he couldn’t understand exactly what was being asked.

But his wide smile would be belied by the shadows tugging at the corners of his eyes. 

He wouldn’t stay away – he never had – because he couldn’t bring himself to, and Touka and Hikaku could never find the strength to lock the door against him. But Izuna had an indulgent tongue, and it would deny that he was ever here even when his feet were flat upon Touka’s tatami, and it would do so because Touka needed it. No, because it would be easier for her— 

A part of her wanted to crow that Tobirama knew Izuna well enough to predict his reactions; she quickly stifled it. That wasn’t a pride she could claim. Only Madara could smile at the idea of Tobirama and Izuna being close, because his life would be greatly eased by the fact that his beloved and his brother had no conflict between them. For Touka, Tobirama was her little cousin, and Izuna was…

Izuna was – could be – no one in particular. A frequent visitor, at most.

“Why did you come, Tobirama?” Touka asked, not even bothering to keep the weary wariness from her voice. “Why are you doing this?”

Tobirama’s head cocked to the side. “Because I think it necessary,” he said. Then, before she could demand an explanation, he continued, “Why do you both refuse to put the issue into words?” 

Eyes falling shut, Touka’s shoulders gave one small shake. “You know the dangers of putting into words what cannot be changed.” Was that truly her voice, so weak, so defeated? “Better to bury it into silence, and—”

“And allow it to fester, until the rot reaches the very roots and become impossible to be cleansed except through complete destruction?” When Touka’s eyes snapped open, Tobirama’s wry, sorrowful smile met her. “There are benefits to admission, Touka-nee. Even if it is to oneself, in silence.”

She should not laugh. She should not—

But it burst out of her nonetheless, a sharp cackle that sliced the back of her throat on its way out, a pain that dragged tears to the corners of her eyes. She blinked them away quickly enough, but the burn of the salt lingered, blurring her vision until Tobirama appeared nothing more than a spectre of white hair and pale skin and black blindfold.

“Is that what Madara taught you?” she finally managed to fling out.

“No, Touka-nee.” Tobirama sounded so calm that her fingers itched for her naginata. But the gifted heart in her chest throbbed, and her hands felt too weak to even pick up her own teacup. “It was the Uchiha as a whole.” The words had barely a moment to hover in the air before Tobirama continued, voice still gentle but every syllable dropping like heavy weights: “Izuna knew it well enough to teach Anija.”

It took nearly all of Touka’s will for her eyes to remain open. She knew what she and Hikaku had done to Izuna; knew the exact shape of and the reasons for the shadows at the edges of his eyes. She had known two years ago when Hashirama had come to her, fingers clenching and unclenching in his lap, to ask if she minded taking over the role of the Senju Clan Head. Because, Hashirama had said then, he could only bear the weight of one leadership position at a time without shattering, and it was far too soon for him to give up the role of the Hokage.

When Touka took on the role of clan heir, it was by tacit agreement between herself, Mito, Hashirama, and the Elder Council that she would never truly step into the position. She was Mito’s apprentice, after all: her training would be meant to prepare her to take on the role of a clan head’s _wife_ in the future, in charge of the minutiae of the household and clan instead of the grander stakes of trade and war. 

Hashirama knew that. He had known, too, the difficulties Touka would run into if she ever had to take on the position of clan head, and he had given her the unspoken promise that he would protect her from it. He was, after all, her older cousin, the highest-ranked among the Senju, and the nigh-legendary heir of the mokuton. 

He was, and would always be, Butsuma’s eldest son.

Yet he had sat in front of her, masks and roles stripped off to reveal the raw, vulnerable wounds beneath, and confessed to his own lack of ability. He hadn’t begged only because she had agreed before he could even get out the first plea, but she could see his willingness to put his forehead on the tatami writ in the paleness of his knuckles.

_Please_, Hashirama had said with his clenched fists and bowed head. _Please, help me, because I can’t do this anymore. _The knobs of his spine had been very stark on the downward curve of his nape.  
_  
_Months later, when she had settled the clan and silenced the elders, Hashirama had told her that he could only find the courage to come because Izuna had railed at him over and over to do so. Every crack of Izuna’s whip-sharp tongue had split open Hashirama’s skin to lance his wounds, and Izuna had been so utterly relentless in ensuring that Hashirama admitted his vulnerabilities out loud that Hashirama had been incredibly glad that the Uchiha wasn’t and would never again be his enemy.

Izuna had refused to allow Hashirama to retreat into silence. Yet he only still smiled whenever Touka insisted on calling the room with Izuna’s things ‘the spare room.” When Touka had refused to admit that the brush and inkstone on the desk beside hers had once been a favourite of Uchiha Tajima, Izuna had only laughed hollowly and agreed, dismissing all of the guilt he had suffered and all of the efforts he had made to keep the heirloom set when the Uchiha had sunk into poverty.

She wanted to blame Hikaku. Hadn’t he done the same as she had, refusing to acknowledge Izuna’s presence and permanence in their lives? At the very least, he hadn’t insisted that she—

But he couldn’t; he wouldn’t _dare_. Not because she outranked him – the Uchiha, she had realised, cared very little about such things – but because he feared that she might discard him.

Touka might treat Izuna as a frequent guest in her home, but she had treated Hikaku no better than a lowborn lover, his standing not even high enough to be considered being made a proper concubine.

If there was any surprise to this, Touka thought, it was that it had taken years before someone had confronted her.

“Why you?” She wasn’t surprised that her voice was barely more than a wisp.

“Because your situation is my fault,” Tobirama said, delivering the utterly ludicrous statement in a matter-of-fact tone. 

“How—” she started.

“Indulge me, Touka-nee,” Tobirama said softly. “Why have you not married Hikaku-san?” His head tilted over slightly in that man’s direction. “It is perfectly possible for you to do so without leaving the Senju stranded without leadership,” because, Touka filled in for him, Hikaku was lower-ranked than her, which would allow him to marry into the Senju even though he was a man and she a woman, “but you have not done so.”

“You know the reason why well enough, besshitsu-san,” Hikaku said. His voice was bland and controlled as always, but Touka knew him well enough to identify the small tremor in it. 

“Again,” Tobirama said softly. If not for the fact that Touka knew how relentless he was, she would have suspected him of being gentle. “I need you to say those words aloud.”

“It will be unfair.” Hikaku’s voice was so steady and Touka was so terribly jealous and proud at the same time. “Not only to Izuna-sama, who cannot have the same kind of relationship with Touka-san as I would have if we marry, but also…” His exhale was ragged and loud. “A marriage with one of us missing will be naught but a sham.”

“Would Izuna say,” Tobirama asked, “that neither of you have any need of him?”

Touka snorted before she could stop herself. “No,” she said, tart. “He knows better.” 

“Hence, the three of you are trapped within the state in which you can neither officially declare your relationship nor break apart,” Tobirama said, tone practically musing. “Anija and Aneue refused to acknowledge it, and have thrown their collective weights behind your order for it to never be mentioned, because they realised that it is not something that either of them can resolve.” 

“It’s not something anyone can resolve,” Touka pointed out.

“No,” Tobirama said, turning towards her. If his eyes still worked, Touka thought, he would be staring her down, now. Instead, there was a weight in the air, like he was struggling so much with his control over his own emotions that they were leaking out everywhere. “It is something I caused, and thus, it is something I will fix.”

“Forgive me for not understanding, besshitsu-san,” Hikaku said, head tilting to the side, “but how is our situation your fault?”

“The reason why the three of you are stuck,” Tobirama said, voice flat, “is that Izuna cannot marry out of the Uchiha into the Senju. The reason he cannot is because Madara refused to take a wife, hence Izuna remains his sole heir and the only possible progenitor of the main Uchiha line. Not only is he obliged to stay within the Uchiha, he must, in the future, take a wife and have children with her.”

Pain pricked at the back of her mind. Touka’s eyes flicked down, and was only slightly surprised to see blood underneath her nails.

“That,” she could hear Hikaku say, as if from far away, “is only one of the problems.”

“It is the biggest one,” Tobirama pointed out. “And the reason why he is burdened with the duty of continuing the Uchiha main line is because—”

“Because Madara-sama has chosen you,” Hikaku interrupted, forcibly continuing Tobirama’s sentence, “and refuses to take a wife who could give him children.” 

A choice that Touka could not understand: a woman who entered a marriage like this would, of course, suffer, but there were plenty of fathers in the village ruthless enough to condemn their daughters to suffer for the power they would gain as the father-in-law to the future Hokage. And she knew for a fact that Madara still struggled to look at the world from the point-of-view of a woman.

It would be easy, so terribly easy, for him to take a wife, and treat her no better than a vassal for his potential heirs.

“Madara cannot be blamed for his decision,” Tobirama said, tone so blunt that each word was akin to a physical blow. “He is an Uchiha. He cannot withstand even the thought of bedding someone he does not love as a spouse or concubine, much less wedding and having children with them.”

“That’s not Madara-sama’s reason,” Hikaku said, sounding amused now. “He would have no wife but you, besshitsu-san, and you know that. He has not been subtle with his entreaties and treats to the Fire Daimyo.”

“You have simply provided another way to phrase what I have said, Hikaku-san,” Tobirama shot back. A muscle in his jaw twitched before he let out a long, slow breath. “The point here is that I am incapable of giving Madara children.” His fingers linked together on top of the chabudai. “As a result, Izuna cannot be released from his duties as heir. Therefore, the circumstances the three of you are trapped in is my doing.”

“Our situation is not caused by any of our actions or our own folly,” Touka said, voice very dry as she stared at Tobirama. “But by the undeniable and unchangeable fact that you are a man. Is that what you’re saying, little cousin?”

Tobirama cocked his head to the side. “You do not agree,” he said.

“Of course I don’t!” It took nearly everything Touka had to not lunge across the chabudai to wrap her hands around his throat; she slammed her hands on the wood instead. “It makes absolutely no sense whatsoever to blame _you_ for the choices Izuna, Hikaku, and I have made. Blaming Madara would be far more sensible than faulting you—”

“No it won’t,” Tobirama protested, voice rising as he straightened. “Madara is an Uchiha; it would be foolish to blame him for acting according to his nature—”

“Is being a man not part of _your_ nature?” Touka flung back. “It’s something that cannot be changed, Tobirama—”

“It can,” Tobirama said. 

Touka blinked. She must have misheard.

“What?” Hikaku’s voice was nothing more than a croak.

“Well,” Tobirama’s fingers drummed on the surface of the chabudai, “entirely changing my sex from that of a man to a woman would be inefficient and unnecessary, because Madara is attracted to me as a man. However, there is a possibility for me to redefine the capabilities of men.” He stilled his hands with, it seemed, some definite effort. “Such as giving myself the ability to have Madara’s children.” 

Touka had spoken with her little cousin ever since he learned how to talk. Somehow, the things that came out of his mouth never stopped surprising her. 

Still, she wasn’t as taken aback as Hikaku: reaching out, she gently nudged his jaw back up from where it was hanging somewhere near his clavicle.

“In doing so,” Tobirama continued, “I would free Izuna from his duties, therefore allowing him to marry you.” He paused. “There are other implications, of course, but I have not fully figured those out yet.” 

“Tobirama, you—” Touka clicked her teeth together, and sucked in a breath with enough force for her gums to ache. “You’re saying that—”

“Every living creature is bound by a template in the blood,” Tobirama said, leaning forward with his elbows on the chabudai now. “Research from over the great oceans call it DNA, and I shall use that name because no one on this continent has come up with a better one.” He paused, as if waiting for something.

“We know about that,” Touka reminded. “That’s what you used to regrow my heart, and Hikaku’s legs.”

“Precisely,” Tobirama nodded. “Throughout my research, I realised the DNA of women and men are almost exactly the same, with only one major difference. I won’t bore you with further details of this, Touka-nee, Hikaku-san, but it means that every man carries within them a template that allows them to grow, within themselves, a woman’s reproductive organs.” He took a long breath. “In fact, all men currently possess the organs that will allow them to create the chemicals – the term used by those foreign texts is ‘hormones’ – within a body that allows a person to sustain a pregnancy.” 

“You mean—” Hikaku started, “a man could—”

“A man could,” Tobirama nodded. Then he tilted his head very deliberately towards her and said, “A woman’s body also contains the information that can be, if directed properly, used to grow the reproductive organs of a man.”

“Tobirama—” Touka choked out. “Little cousin—”

“Yes, Touka-nee, I know.” Tobirama was smiling, the bastard. “The other reason why you have not married Hikaku-san is because you dislike pregnancy, and you hate the idea of becoming pregnant even more.”

That was understating matters slightly: Touka had been avoiding Mito for months – ever since Mito had started showing, in fact – and using clan messengers to communicate with the woman she used to talk to every day. Mito understood, but Touka knew that the woman who was her older sister in all but blood missed her greatly. She knew, too, that she was being unreasonable and unfair.

But she couldn’t look at Mito. Even the smallest glance of Mito’s now-swollen body enraged her, because all she could think of was that _this _was the fate that awaited her if she ever let down her guard enough to marry. No matter how much she trained, no matter how much she hardened her body, in the end she would still have to throw away those years of effort and hard work to become nothing more than an incubator for some man’s seed.

Even among the Senju, kunoichi tended to retire after marriage. She had not fought for over a decade to be acknowledged as a frontline warrior to be forced to keep house, raise children, and never pick up her naginata except to defend her home. Which, given the village, meant that she would likely never touch it again.

_No_.

Touka knew she was horrifyingly selfish and unfair: she had Izuna, and she had Hikaku, and she both refused and could not marry them. She had, in essence, trapped them both with her, and denied them a possibility of continuing their family lines. If she had any sense, she wouldn’t have allowed their relationship to begin the first place.

But they were Uchiha, and they had chosen her, and she was plenty egoistical enough to not turn them away. Still, she had known – and so had Hikaku and Izuna – that what they had was but temporary dalliance. One day, not long into the future, their heads must clear and they must settle into proper marriages. 

A marriage where Touka would be forced to become some other man’s wife, bear his children, and become nothing but a doll holding the position of clan head as everyone went behind her back to speak to her husband, who was surely the better authority on clan affairs given that he was a _man_. Never mind that he would have none of her experience or training. Never mind that he would not have fought to take the position from Hashirama’s trembling hands and to keep it for the sake of her cousin’s sanity. Never mind that she had her elbows deep into the guts of the village even before it was anything greater than a half-formed idea.

(Of course, if she married Hikaku, he would gently redirect her clan members to seek her for counsel instead. Or perhaps they wouldn’t look to him for leadership because he was an Uchiha. She still had a path to take that would allow her to keep her position and power within the Senju.

But that would be because of Hikaku. Not because of her and her own abilities.)

Except—

“If you have Madara-sama’s children,” Hikaku said, sounding and looking as if he was choking on nothing, “then Izuna-sama would be free to marry whom he wishes. He will be allowed to marry out.”

“Yes,” Tobirama nodded.

“Then, if he does, and your— idea—” Hikaku faltered.

“Jutsu,” Tobirama supplied.

“That,” Hikaku nodded, pointing with a shaky hand, “means that Touka does not _need_ to be the one to carry the children to ensure the continuation of the line. Izuna-sama can do it.” His teeth practically chattered. “_I _can do it.”

One corner of Tobirama’s mouth curved up. “Yes.”

“Oh,” Hikaku said. He sounded very dazed. Touka could empathise.

“I have kept my silence on the circumstances between the three of you during this time,” Tobirama said, “because I could not find a solution. I have learned enough from watching Izuna and Anija – and even Madara and Aneue and the two of you, Touka-nee, Hikaku-san – that forcing admission to a problem will only cause damage unless there is a way forward.” 

Leaning back, he spread out his hands. “Here is a way forward.” 

Touka closed her eyes. Her forehead thudded against the solid wood of the chabudai. “Little cousin,” she breathed. “I don’t even know what to say. I think you have completely dismantled my brain.”

“My solutions _are_ rather unconventional,” Tobirama admitted.

“To say the least,” Hikaku said.

The tone of his voice had Touka jerking up immediately, eyes narrowing by instinct. Hikaku had his eyes lowered to stare at the chabudai. He didn’t look at her even when, she knew, he could feel the weight of her gaze. 

“Tobirama,” she said. 

Married to the Uchiha or not, years of peace or not, Tobirama still understood the snap of her voice when it became like this. Inclining his head, he asked, “Later, Touka-nee, or tomorrow?” 

“When I come to find you,” she answered, keeping her gaze fixed on Hikaku. “The Academy, right?”

“Usually,” Tobirama nodded. “If not, then the Uchiha compound.” His lips twitched up into a ghost of a smile that she could barely see from the corner of her eye. “Until then, Touka-nee.”

When she nodded, he walked out of the door and slipped his feet back into his shoes. Before she could shout a goodbye, he vanished, leaving behind only the faint crackle of chakra skittering along her senses that had become a trademark of his Hiraishin.

“Hikaku-san,” she said. When Hikaku didn’t speak, when he still refused to look at her, she took drastic measures: reaching out, she curled her fingers beneath his chin, and tipped his head up until those dark eyes were fixed upon hers.

As she expected, he averted his gaze immediately, lips pressing into a thin, white line. She didn’t press him, but neither did she deprive him of the feel of her callused fingertips against his skin. She simply waited.

She had lost count of the number of heartbeats that had passed when he finally spoke, “This is a momentous occasion. Not only for the Uchiha, not only for Konoha, but the world.”

“Yes,” Touka agreed. Once Tobirama introduced this to the world, it would change irrevocably. It was, she thought, very lucky that her little cousin now lived in a shinobi village full of people who were, if not used to his unconventional thinking, aware of the benefits that they could and had derived from it.

All thoughts of Tobirama fled when Hikaku’s shoulders shook. It was only once, but she knew how much control he had always exerted over himself. She was no longer that fool in the sickbed talking about how much she would not mind dying while Hikaku was in front of her, heart bleeding and eyes aching from the thought of losing her. 

“I didn’t, I,” Hikaku’s breath shuddered out of him. “Touka-san, I—” Another minute shiver. “Gods above, Touka-san, my Sharingan— I didn’t— I—” A high-pitched laugh wrested out of him.

“A truly momentous occasion. The first time that besshitsu-san spoke about the jutsu that will surely change the world in front of one of the village’s leaders. In front of an Uchiha record-keeper.” His hand slapped over his own face. “_And I didn’t record it_.” 

“Why?” she did not ask because she wanted to know, but because she had learned from Izuna, too: some things _had_ to be spoken aloud.

“Because I was not thinking of the clan,” Hikaku breathed. “I was not thinking of the world. I was only thinking about—”

“Do I smell Tobirama’s presence?” Izuna’s voice rang out. “Or was Kagami lying when he told me that he sensed his darling Sensei around these parts, Touka?”

Touka opened her mouth, about to greet Izuna, when Hikaku’s sharp intake of breath caught her attention. She barely had a moment to take in wide black eyes before Hikaku was scrambling to his feet, clumsy like a newborn foal with all of his usual careful grace gone, and sprinting for the door.

Izuna grunted when Hikaku’s body impacted with his, his arms automatically wrapping around the slighter man’s waist. “Wha—” Izuna tried to say, the word left incomplete when Hikaku’s hands cupped his face and dragged Izuna forward to crash their lips together in a messy kiss. 

All that speed training paid off when Touka managed to reach the two men before they toppled over. She braced herself with both feet planted solidly on the tatami, one arm wrapping around Izuna’s shoulders to steady him while the other hand curled around Hikaku’s neck. Then she turned her head, nuzzling her cheek against Izuna’s ear and jaw, grinning against soft skin when Izuna shook beneath their sudden, coordinate assault.

“Did something—” Izuna gasped, “happen—”

“We received news that can change the world,” Hikaku said, words slurred by how his lips were dragging over Izuna’s neck. “I recorded none of it.”

“You—” Izuna’s sharp intake of breath was very loud. “Uh— it was really that shocking, huh?”

“Don’t be silly, Izuna-sama,” Hikaku gave a shaky laugh. “I did not record, for I wasn’t thinking about the clan. I wasn’t thinking about the world.” A soft laugh, then he finished the aborted sentence he had been giving Touka: “I was only thinking about us.”

“I don’t,” Izuna broke off with a gasping whine as Touka’s hand snuck inside his tsumugi, “understand— wait— hold on— we’re not in the— bedroom—”

“Marry me, Izuna,” Touka whispered into his ear, and smiled when Izuna froze. “I offer you the position of Senju clan matriarch, as befits your position as the previous Uchiha clan heir.”

“Wha—” Izuna burbled. “I—”

“Hikaku,” Touka murmured, sinking her fingers in the man’s hair and tugging off his hair tie. “To you I offer the position of a concubine. Though the position might seem lowly, but you will be as beloved and trusted and worthy as that of the matriarch of my clan.” 

“Will the two of you _stop_ molesting me and explain what is going on?!” Izuna was obviously struggling to remain coherent as the two of them attacked his neck and chest with kisses and caresses. “Nothing you’re saying makes sense, Touka, because it can’t be— it’s not— can we get to the bedroom at least, anyone passing by will see—”

“Let them see,” Touka snarled. “You will be my wife, Izuna, and you will be my concubine, Hikaku, and it is the right of the head of household, the clan head, to touch their spouse in whichever room she likes in the house that belongs to her.” She nipped lightly on Izuna’s ear even as she scraped her nails over the back of Hikaku’s head to end at his nape, making him tremble, lashes fluttering over his cheeks. “As long as they are willing.”

“I don’t—” Izuna stuttered out, “understand—”

“Besshitsu-san found a way,” Hikaku told him.

“Oh,” Izuna said, flat. “That explains _nothing_—” Touka heard him prepare to take a long, steady breath, and interrupted what was likely a long diatribe by biting down on the curve of one shoulder. His inhale tripped on its way down his throat, rant shifting instead into a strangled moan, and she grinned.

“Later,” she reassured him. “We’ll explain later.” Her hand slipped down to curl around his, fingers linking. “Right now, we’re both going to ravish you in full view of anyone who wants to walk past the front door of my house.”

“That seems a bit much,” Izuna let out a tremulous laugh.

“If you disagree, Izuna-sama,” Hikaku said, black eyes bright as he tipped his head back – when had he dropped to his knees? – to try to meet Izuna’s gaze, “then we will stop.”

“Fuck no,” Izuna said, fervent and giddy and breathless. “Have your way with me however you like.”

“Good,” Touka said. “Because you’re not a secret, and I will never allow you to be one again.” Then, exchanging a glance with Hikaku, the two of them dragged Izuna down to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To elaborate more on Western vs East Asian models of gender… In this chapter, Touka, as the closest thing to an Action Girl I can ever bear to write (which is, in truth, “shounen hero with a woman’s body and pronouns), represents the _Western_ model of gender. The keyword in her section comes from Tobirama’s statement about _capabilities_: Western feminism is fixated upon ability, especially in terms of biology. (Just look at all the debates about whether women are “as good as” men.) 
> 
> The East Asian model will be explicated next chapter.


	30. to carve the river’s path

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings: **More genderfuckery. This chapter covers the East Asian side of gender theory (if you’ve forgotten, last chapter is about the Western version). Again, if you have an issue with men being referred to as wives and mothers, or women as husbands and fathers, read the first scene and skip to the end. Because the first scene is _primary_ about class instead of gender.

“Sensei.”

The voice was a familiar one, and came from his left and slightly above his waist. The boy’s chakra burned bright in his mental sight, a bundle of sparking fireworks bright enough to overwhelm even the blazing afternoon sunlight.

“Kagami,” Tobirama acknowledged, reaching out his left hand. His fingers sank into soft curls, and Kagami let out a small, indignant-sounding huff when Tobirama ruffled the strands. Then he tilted his head, nodding towards the much softer light emitting from the boy who had come up beside Kagami. “Maru.”

“I should’ve known that that you wouldn’t need me to speak to recognise me, sensei,” Maru chirped. A tendril of light shifted and shivered upwards; Maru tucking a strand of hair behind his ear in his usual nervous gesture, Tobirama guessed.

His cane swept over the ground. He had used the Hiraishin and ‘leapt’ from Touka’s house to one on the east-facing wall of the Uchiha compound. When he nudged at his chakra sense, the village spread itself out to his senses, confirming his location.

The cobblestones that they had once planned to use had been scrapped before the roads were built; dirt paths were what formed Konoha’s streets. Tobirama had tried to convince Hashirama and Madara that such considerations weren’t necessary, but Hashirama had laughed and said that he knew just how little Tobirama’s chakra sense could do with stones that had never lived, and he really would like his little brother to not constantly trip and fall on his face as he walked down the streets of his own village.

The alternative, Madara had said, was for Tobirama to be accompanied everywhere, his arm curled around an elbow that could keep him steady. And since Madara disliked even the thought of anyone outside himself and Tobirama’s birth family touching him with such intimacy… There was absolutely no way Tobirama would have allowed Madara to drop everything just to stick by his side every hour of every day.

So, the dirt roads had ended up being the more reasonable option, especially since Mito had chimed in to state that she had plenty of charming excuses to give incoming clans if they ever asked why Konoha’s roads had never been paved with stones.

No one, Mito had assured him when he brought up the topic near the end of their meeting, had ever bothered asking. They had simply assumed that it was part of Konoha’s infrastructure to have dirt roads instead of paved ones, and the shinobi members of various clans had taken to running on rooftops whenever it rained and the roads became too muddy to walk on. The civilian members generally stayed home during those times.

A brief whiff of sweet-smelling smoke. Tobirama cocked his head, focusing on it— ah, the senbei shop that had been set up near the compound gates. They had been walking along the walls for a few minutes in complete silence by now.

He should send them away, Tobirama thought. He wanted to head to his lab to hammer a little more at his unfinished jutsu before Madara returned home in a little over an hour and Tobirama would be entirely occupied with telling him about the very thing.

Still, he had felt Kagami and Maru loitering outside Touka’s house when he was inside. Even though they hadn’t dared to barge in – likely knowing that he was having an important conversation – they had been clearly waiting for him for a long enough time that he couldn’t bear to turn them away.

It wasn’t by coincidence that he had chosen this marker to use instead of the one right inside his lab; these were his students, after all, and he was obliged to ensure that they had a good education.

“You didn’t ambush me in the middle of the street to watch me walk, Kagami, Maru,” Tobirama said. The tip of his cane found a small stone embedded in the middle of the road; he aimed the tip down and flicked the pebble away. It thudded dully against the side of Kagami’s leather boot before being buried into the ground again by the boy’s next step. “So, what is it?”

“Do we need a reason to walk with you, Sensei?” Kagami asked, a particular lilt to his words telling Tobirama that the boy was trying a smile.

“No,” Tobirama said, moving his left hand so his knuckle brushed over one smooth cheek. “But you usually have the patience to wait until our lessons.”

Maru snorted. “Told you that we’re going to be very obvious if we find him right now,” he said, silhouette shifting in a way that suggested that he was elbowing Kagami in the ribs.

“I am not, and will not, scold you for seeking me out the moment you wish to,” Tobirama said. He couldn’t stare at them to ensure that they took his words to heart, so he squeezed one small shoulder before moving to the next. “I only wish to remind both of you that you have absolutely no need to hesitate before asking me a question. Any question.”

“Even if it has nothing to do with our studies?” Kagami blurted out.

“Yes,” Tobirama said.

Silence fell between them again. Or rather, the boys did not speak, and Tobirama’s ears were filled with the sounds of footsteps and laughter and even a few shouts. His head cocked to the side as he focused on something just a little beyond what would be his usual view of vision— an index finger twitched, and the puddle on the ground vanished right before two tiny chakra signatures ran over the ground where it had been.

“I know why the Academy needs to exist,” Kagami said, voice no louder than a whisper. “But I don’t know why you’re splitting up the shinobi, Sensei.”

“Splitting them up?” Tobirama asked, confused by the term. “We’re doing the opposite of that, Kagami: we’re building teams of shinobi out of the Academy.” They had not decided on the numbers yet: the Academy was still working through their first two cohorts, and the teachers had been instructed to attempt in-class group work and feedback to Tobirama how well pairs worked in comparison to teams of three, four, five, and six. 

At some point they would need to start thinking about grouping students based on their academic scores. But given that the rubrics he had come up with hadn’t been properly tested yet… He resisted the urge to run a hand through his hair, focusing back to the boys standing around him.

“That’s not the kind of splitting up we mean, Sensei,” Kagami said. Like always, he had figured out when Tobirama was distracted by his own thoughts and kept quiet until he had his teacher’s attention on him again.

“Then what is it that you mean?” Tobirama asked.

“Not the system that’s being used for _us_,” Maru cut in before Kagami could say a word. “The Academy is for us, and the grouping into teams is for us, too.” The two boys were part of the Academy’s first cohort, and they were the two that Tobirama had tested his rudimentary curriculums out on, too. “We’re talking about the classification system you’re making for the currently-serving shinobi, Sensei.”

_Oh_. Tobirama cocked his head slightly to the side. “You mean the genin, chuunin, tokubetsu jounin, and jounin system,” he said. When he heard two small noises of affirmation in response, he pressed his lips tighter into a line and huffed out a breath through his nose. “Who told you about that?”

“Everyone’s talking about it in class, Sensei,” Maru said, sounding confused. “And within the compound, too, though not nearly as loudly.”

Right, Hashirama had already announced the new system to the village after Tobirama had checked and double-checked the characteristics and definitions of each class, as well as the setup that would allow one shinobi to move up to the other, with Mito and the various clan heads. 

“What about it is confusing to you, Maru?” Tobirama asked, turning slightly to face the boy. “Is it the difference the tokubetsu jounin and jounin?” 

“We understand _that_, Sensei,” Kagami said. His hand brushed lightly over Tobirama’s wrist before let out a long sigh. “We just— or, well, _I _don’t understand why we even need a system like that.”

Ah. “You listened to the official explanation, right?” Tobirama prompted.

“Of course, Sensei,” Kagami said. “But—”

“It didn’t make sense to us,” Maru blurted out. “Not like how when _you_ explain things, anyway.”

“I wrote that official explanation,” Tobirama pointed out mildly. Of course, he hadn’t written it himself – he might have found a way to write, but he saved the method for his own notes that, unlike official documents like these, did not come with easy access to scribes – but it was still his habit of saying that instead of ‘I dictated and Yamanaka Inohiro wrote it down for me.’

“It’s not the same, Sensei,” Maru said, heaving a far heavier sigh than the situation warranted.

Tobirama’s lips twitched upwards. “Alright,” he said. “But this is not a conversation to have while walking.” He threw out his chakra around him, feeling the fuzzy edges of buildings come into ‘view’ at the back of his eyelids. Like he had expected, he was in front of the door of his own house. He could…

No. Not when Madara was likely to return home soon, and Tobirama would have to split his attention between his husband and his students.

After a moment of consideration, he lifted his cane from the ground and wound his chakra around the boys’ ankles. “Brace yourselves,” he warned.

Then, before they could protest, he sought the marking he had made on the eastern side of the village, and pulled himself there. 

The world twisted and spun for the briefest of moments before solid ground slapped his soles. Tobirama’s lips twitched upwards when he heard Maru groaned while Kagami toppled forward and barely caught himself on the wooden gate of the house he had brought them to.

Before the protective seals could retaliate to the presence of a potential intruder, Tobirama brushed Kagami’s hand away from the wood, and laid his own fingers upon it. The lock creaked softly upon the touch of his chakra, recognising it and sliding back automatically, and Tobirama pushed the door open with his cane before stepping inside.

Perhaps ‘house’ was a misnomer: this place was more like an _estate_, with several buildings joined together that sprawled out towards the south and east. The westernmost part enclosed by wooden fences was a garden, the plants within it so tame and well-kept that their light was barely a dim glow to Tobirama’s chakra sight. The koi pond at the centre of the garden, right at the window of the main sitting hall of the estate’s biggest building, had long been drained of water, the stone laid bare behind it was cold and dead to Tobirama’s senses. 

This was the house that the Senju elders had insisted for Hashirama to build for himself when they had first finalised the plans for the Senju compound within Konoha. His brother had never set a single foot into this place: the Hokage was given the residence at the very centre of the village, right beside the Academy, and that was where Hashirama had made his home. 

It was a much smaller place than this estate: a single two-storey wooden house with movable sliding walls to demarcate the spaces that Hashirama and Mito needed, and a stone hut that served as the kitchen a distance from the main building. The grounds between the two were occupied by a garden that ran wild with plants of every sort; plants that were tall enough to hide a fox whenever he took a nap among the leaves.

(Madara had laughed and said that Hashirama was trying his best to leave his work at the Tower by making it nearly impossible for anyone outside of family to visit him at home. Izuna had commented, tartly, that sooner or later the hospital would end up housing shinobi who ended up there because they had pissed off Kurama.

Tobirama wondered, then, if it was possible for there to be a group of shinobi who served specifically as the Hokage’s messengers and bodyguards. Jounin or tokubetsu jounin with different duties than the rest… It was an idea he should talk over with Izuna.)

When Touka had taken over Hashirama as the Senju Clan Head, the elders had tried to insist that she should move to live there. Then Touka had pointed out that if she did, then Hikaku would move in with her, and Izuna would be by frequently to visit, at which point the Senju had spluttered themselves into silence.

So this estate, made as the grand residence of the most prominent member of the greatest founding clan of Konoha, was empty. The civilians of the Senju in charge of cleaning and gardening managed its upkeep, of course, but the only other footsteps the ground saw were Tobirama’s, and only when he found it to be a convenient spot for conversations. Which wasn’t often: he lived in the Uchiha compound, after all.

“Over here, Kagami, Maru,” Tobirama said, lifting the hand not holding onto the cane to wave it in the direction of the garden. There were two dull spots among the faded glow of the garden: stone benches. Tobirama chose one and sat down. He waited a few moments for the boys to take in their fill of the place before motioning for them to sit down on the ground in front of him.

“What did the official statement say about the necessity of the new system?” he asked.

“To allow the Hokage to do his job properly,” Maru answered promptly. “There are too many shinobi in the village now for the Hokage to understand every single one of their strengths and limitations. With the classification system, and rubrics to evaluate their level of the common skills, the Hokage can assign the correct missions to the correct shinobi.”

That had been lifted entirely from the official statement. Tobirama bit back a sigh, nodding instead in the boy’s direction. “Very good, Maru,” he said, and his smile became a little more sincere at the spark of pleased satisfaction in the boy’s chakra. “Why is it that we must move from the old system of allowing the clan heads to decide which shinobi of their clan to take which mission, Kagami?” 

A long silence. “I don’t understand,” Kagami said finally.

“Our current system is that the Hokage assigns bundles of missions to a clan,” Tobirama said. He waited until both boys had shown that they were following him. “Then the clan head, using his knowledge of his own shinobi’s capabilities, will assign the missions.” More noises of affirmation. Tobirama linked his fingers together on top of his knees. “Why must that system be replaced by that of the shinobi classification that we have just expounded?”

“That,” Kagami said, sounding wry, “is what we’re trying to ask you, Sensei.”

“Have you tried asking anyone else?” he returned.

“Yes,” Maru said, his silhouette bobbing into a nod. “We asked Izuna-sama.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said that the answer is so obvious that he’s not sure how explain,” Maru said, a thread of frustration seeping into his tone. “And then he told us to come to you instead.”

“Mm,” Tobirama nodded. He could see why Izuna would not be able to answer: to him, such things were so obvious and in-his-face that he could only flap his hands helplessly while exclaiming his inability. It likely did not help, Tobirama thought, that Izuna had never really needed to explain his thought processes when it came to things like this; Madara had frequently just accepted everything his brother did without needing to understand the reasoning behind it. Mito, at the very least, had attempted to teach Touka about the meaning of symbols and unsaid words.

“It doesn’t help,” Kagami said, his tone of voice suggesting that he had his head tipped to the sky so he wasn’t looking at anyone, “that no one else seems to have an issue understanding the reasoning, either.”

Tobirama fought down a smile; and that, he thought, was the very reason for the need of the shinobi classification system either.

“There are many types of missions,” Tobirama said softly. “Some of them more dangerous, some of them no more than menial chores. We always had a classification for those,” every clan did, and Tobirama had gone through intense discussions two years ago to boil it down to four categories of D to A, and then S as a special category for missions requiring an exceptionally high level of skill, “and a clan head is supposed to use that classification to give the missions to the appropriate shinobi with the correct skills.”

His lips twitched up into a small smile. “Do you see why that might be an issue?”

“The clan head will give the best missions to those he likes the best,” Maru blurted out. “Which means that those shinobi who aren’t in the clan head’s favour…” he trailed off, breathing in sharply.

“Shinobi like you,” Tobirama tilted his head down, “who don’t have a family of shinobi who can vouch for your blood, and given how much blood is used to calculate skill…”

“Madara-sama wouldn’t do that,” Kagami whispered, “but any other clan head who thinks that a washerwoman’s son shouldn’t become a shinobi…”

“All the unfortunate shinobi will receive,” Tobirama said, “are the missions that are menial work, because the clan head will think that’s all they are good for.” He cocked his head to the side. “But why is that an issue?”

“We have an Academy to make sure that everyone has a chance to become a shinobi if they want to become one,” Kagami said, words practically tripping out of his lips. “But if those from civilian families graduate and then are given nothing but bad missions by their clan head—”

“Or for their clan heads to hand them missions that would get them killed to get rid of them—” Maru interrupted, sounding horrified.

“—then everyone will remain stuck where they are, because any civilian-born who try to become shinobi end up dead or doing grunt work, and—” Kagami couldn’t finish, sucking in a deep breath as he shook his head.

“—and they might not even get missions in the first place,” Maru finished for him, sounding equally stricken.

“See?” Tobirama’s smile widened. “You can figure it out yourselves.” He leaned forward a little more. “What are the other reasons?”

There was a long moment of heavy breathing as the boys tried to calm down their roiling emotions and chakra. While Tobirama waited for them, he sank deeper within himself and sent out a nudging question.

_Go away_, Matatabi’s sleepy voice drawl. _I’m not interested in these cubs_.

_Are there any cubs that you _are_ interested in?_ Tobirama asked, amused.

_Aside from you? _Matatabi snorted. _No. Though the ones you’re planning to have with your Madara might be interesting._ A pause, and then she made another one of those snuffling noises that indicated her shifting into another position within the space of his mind. _Probably after they can speak in full sentences. Not when they’re screaming and peeing everywhere_.

_Have you_, Tobirama fought to not laugh, because laughing aloud meant having to explain what Matatabi had just said to Kagami and Maru, and he would rather not, _had many interactions with human infants?_

_I’ve seen plenty of them in this village of yours, haven’t I? _Matatabi huffed. _Go back to your little cubs, Tobirama. They’re staring at you_.

Right. Tobirama shook his head slightly. “Did you answer?” he asked the boys.

“You were obviously talking to Matatabi-sama, Sensei,” Kagami said, sounding a little put-upon. 

“Can we see her?” Maru piped up. “Please?”

When Tobirama prodded the cat, she didn’t even bother acknowledging him beyond an extra-loud snore. He let out a sigh, shaking his head again.

But Maru only laughed lightly. “Alright then,” he said. “Anyway, Sensei, we forgot the question.”

“The other reasons why we’re changing to a shinobi classification system,” Tobirama repeated patiently.

“Uh,” Kagami said, sounding thoughtful. “One of my classmates, Hatake Kumate,” nephew of the Hatake Clan Head Senbakoki, Tobirama remembered; a son of his younger brother, “was saying that now the best missions won’t go to the biggest clans.” 

“And there won’t be fighting amongst the clan for the best ‘mission bundle,’” Maru added, the quotes obvious in his voice. “Or that’s what I heard from Akimichi Chouro anyway.” Chouta’s grandnephew – his eldest sister’s grandson.

He waited for more, but they had fallen silent. Well, he added mentally for himself, the new system would also ensure that clanless shinobi and shinobi from the tiny, no-name clans would have an equal share of missions. Not that he would tell that to Kagami and Maru right now; they had enough on their plate trying to grasp the issues of civilian-born of a large shinobi clan that imagining the lives of someone who had little or no clan identity to cling to would be too difficult for them.

Besides, there was something more important to address.

“If you know all that from your classmates,” Tobirama cocked his head to the side, “then why did you still come to ask me about the reasons behind the change?”

Another long silence. This time, Tobirama took care to not drift off into talking to Matatabi or thinking about his experiments. He might not have eyes to stare at them anymore, but they had been his students for long enough to feel the weight of his attention on them.

“Because,” Kagami said finally, voice very soft, “we don’t know why you would bother.”

Ah. Tobirama breathed in sharply through his nose. 

“I mean, we’re thankful for it, but—” Kagami paused, clearly looking for words, “there are enough shinobi families that there’s no _need_ for us to become shinobi to fill up the ranks—”

They _wouldn’t_ be reduced to that, Tobirama thought fiercely to himself. They were his students, and given that Hashirama had his way and Tobirama’s face was up there on the mountain – the only reason why he was glad to be blind, so he wouldn’t have to look at the atrocity – and he would use whatever authority he had to stop his students from becoming cannon fodder.

To stop _any_ shinobi child from becoming cannon fodder.

“—and we’re happy, we really are, that you’re trying so hard to make sure that we have as much of a chance to become a shinobi as anyone from a shinobi family does,” Kagami continued, clearly babbling by now, “but we don’t understand _why_ you’re doing it.”

“Is it because there won’t be need for civilians in the village?” Maru blurted out. “Does Konoha not need blacksmiths and chefs and people to do the laundry? Is that why you want more civilians to become shinobi? So that we’ll still have something to do when the job we’re meant for no longer exists?”

“But that doesn’t make sense!” Kagami said, sounding startled. “We’ll _always_ need fishermen or blacksmiths, unless—”

When Tobirama held up a hand, he shut up so quickly that his teeth clicked together.

“There will still be need for blacksmiths,” Tobirama said, quiet and serious. “And for chefs, and noodle-makers, and mochi-pounders, and whatever civilian job that is available in a clan compound. We are a village, and a village more than ten times bigger than a compound.” He let out a slow, rattling breath, and clenched his still-lifted hand into a fist. “Your mothers will not become destitute. They will not need to become shinobi.” 

“Oh,” Kagami said faintly.

“That’s good,” Maru said, voice equally weak.

Leaning forward, Tobirama placed his hands on their heads, gently ruffling the strands. A part of him, too used to Madara, was squawking something unintelligible about how these children were far too young to be worried about such things. It was something Madara would certainly say, though Tobirama still wasn’t sure why: the fact that Kagami and Maru were already ten when they first fretted for their parents’ safety and livelihood was one of the village’s miracles to him. 

They would never be like him, clutching onto his mother’s hands and trying to comfort her even as he tried to not throw up from the stench of her blood flooding the room. And maybe Madara would think it unfair that they, the children of civilians, would have to worry about matters that shinobi children would not need to…

Well, Tobirama would agree that it was unfair, but he wouldn’t stop giving them the information and understanding they needed. They were behind the shinobi children in so many ways already – Izuna’s inability to explain and the Uchiha shinobi children not needing explanations were enough proof of that – that they didn’t need to have their ears further stuffed up with cotton.

“It’s to give you a choice,” Tobirama said once he felt their chakras calm from his touch. “It is to give any and all children in this village a choice of what they want to become.” He let out a long breath. “What your parents are, or were, should not, and will not, determine who you become.” 

They did not and could not understand the true weight of that sentence. Hashirama stood above and ahead of all of them as Hokage, drawing every eye of the village to himself, and that had given him even more reason to hide all of his vulnerabilities behind such a vast variety of masks that not even Tobirama could identify, much less name, all of them. 

“But—” Maru started. “That’s—”

“We do not plan for every civilian’s child to become shinobi,” he said softly. “But if that is what they want to be, the laws of the village will let them.” Another rattling exhale. “At the same time, we know, all of us, the importance of our civilians.” His lips quirked up.

“It’s possible for a shinobi’s child to become a civilian, you know,” he said. When Maru and Kagami froze beneath his hands, their chakra spiking with pure shock, Tobirama threw his head back and laughed. “Why not, Maru, Kagami? Didn’t some of fishermen of the clan work as shinobi?”

“Yes, but,” Kagami’s breath rattled in his chest, “that’s because they had to _retire_ from being a shinobi. If they weren’t injured or too old, then they would still be shinobi.”

“Perhaps,” Tobirama acknowledged. “But they might think their lives as fishermen are better than what they had as shinobi.”

“That’s not _possible_,” Maru blurted out.

“Why not?” Tobirama returned immediately. 

“No one would think that a shinobi’s life is worse than a fisherman’s,” Kagami said, voice soft but strident with conviction. “That’s _crazy_.”

“Really?” Tobirama asked, lips twitching slightly. “Both shinobi and fisherman wake at dawn, but a fisherman’s duties end by noon, at the very latest.” When all of the fish had been distributed or – for some in the village now – sold at the market. “A shinobi’s duties do not end until evening. And during missions, the duties continue until the evening three or four days later.”

“That’s not,” Kagami spluttered. “That’s—”

“A person who likes to sleep,” Tobirama said, “and who prefers a quiet, peaceful life… they would choose being a fisherman over being a shinobi.” 

When both boys didn’t speak for long moments, he let out a soft laugh. His hands shifted to cup the backs of their necks, fingers clenching and unclenching to lightly massage their napes, before he pulled away. 

“Being a civilian,” Tobirama said softly, “is not and will never be a shame.” His nails scraped over their scalps for the briefest of moments before he picked up his cane and stood. “Neither is it inferiority.”

Kagmai’s breath hitched. “Sensei,” he started. He let out a long breath.

“This is the estate that should belong to the Senju Clan Head,” Tobirama told them. “Anija has given me permission to come whenever I wish, and to bring whoever I wish. The locks on the door will open automatically if you wish to leave.”

“You’re letting us—” Maru cut himself off. If Tobirama could see him, he knew those Uchiha-dark eyes would be very wide. He fought down a smile.

“Yes,” he said instead. “Because I really must return to my lab if I am to get any work done today. If I don’t move now, my husband will appear to monopolise my time, and I won’t even get to touch my lab’s door.” 

“Oh,” Kagami said. “Sensei, we’re sorry—”

“Don’t be,” Tobirama interrupted him. “I will always choose answering your questions to working on my experiments.” He ruffled Kagami’s curls again before squeezing Maru’s shoulders. “Stay here for as long as you wish, and if any of the Senju try to blame you, tell them they can get an explanation from me, and I am at my lab.”

Kagami and Maru started to giggle; they knew well enough that no one would dare to actually demand an explanation from Tobirama, much less when he was working. Kagami and Maru might not understand the Senju’s wariness over Tobirama’s experiments – mostly because they had been helping him with them for years now – but they knew of it. Plus, Tobirama added to himself, his impatience for people interrupting him while he was working had become rather infamous around the village after he had nearly drowned the first few who had banged on his door to lodge foolish complaints or ask thoughtless questions. 

“Thank you, Sensei,” Maru said, voice very softly. Beside him, Kagami grabbed Tobirama’s wrist and squeezed it lightly.

“No need,” Tobirama shook his head. Then, before they could insist – they really had learned that too well from their mothers – he focused. There was a marking he had left inside his lab. He focused on it.

And pulled.

Before Madara had even turned towards the direction of the Uchiha compound, Tsurugi was already there, practically waiting for him at the door of the Academy like Madara was a student and he was an anxious parent. Madara waited the few moments necessary for Tsurugi’s steps to draw even with his own before he spoke.

“Don’t tell me,” he said, one brow already arching, “more people asking for permission to join the Uchiha?”

“A silk painter, aged twenty-one; an embroiderer, age eighteen; and a weaver, aged sixteen,” Tsurugi nodded. Then he added, unnecessarily, “All of them are Senju women seeking to marry our Uchiha blacksmiths.”

The ages were necessary, Madara knew, because they gave an indicator of the level these civilians had reached with regards to their respective skills. Generally, the older the bride, the higher the bride price, because the clan losing the daughter should be compensated not only for the loss of her talent, but also the time they had taken to cultivate said skill.

But Madara wasn’t paying attention to the age for that reason – those negotiations were under Tsurugi’s purview, not his. No, he took note for one reason alone: like almost every Senju marriage that had occurred since Konoha’s official founding, the brides were of age to Hashirama. The ones who had grown up under Butsuma’s rule and who, as civilian women, been fed on tales of Butsuma’s wife.

He had been silent for too long; Tsurugi was staring at him now. Madara scrambled for something to say.”

“You make it sound like we’re supposed to coerce our own Uchiha men to marry those Senju women,” he finally managed.

“They are willing, Madara-sama.” Despite the solemnness of his tone, a corner of Tsurugi’s mouth twitched. “Though,” he hesitated, “I am truly surprised that Senju Touka-sama has allowed for so many marriages.” 

Madara knew what he meant: the number of Senju women who had married out of the clan within the last three years had reached high enough that, Madara knew, there were nearly no Senju women for the Senju men to take as brides. As clan head, Touka – and Hashirama before her – should have stopped these inter-clan marriages long ago. Or, at the very least, demanded that the men from the non-Uchiha clans – quite a few Senju women had married into the Inuzuka, Aburama, Akimichi, Yamanaka, and Nara; there was even one, a kunoichi, who had married a Hatake – married into the Senju instead. The Senju would have plenty of right to do so: they were a founding clan of Konoha, and hence held a far higher social rank over all other clans except the Uchiha.

But Touka had made no such demands. And, Madara knew, she had no desire to do so.

“If you must question the decisions of another clan head, Tsurugi,” Madara said, staring straight ahead, “do so behind closed doors.” That was as much confirmation as he could give Tsurugi without directly telling the man Hashirama and Touka’s intentions.

Luckily, Tsurugi caught on immediately. “It seems that many an Uchiha man finds Senju brides to be attractive,” he said, changing the subject swiftly.

“You mean to say that a Senju face appears beautiful to the Uchiha eye?” Madara arched the other brow.

Tsurugi chuckled in response. “Is it the face that so draws you to _your _Senju bride, Madara-sama?” Something must have shown on Madara’s face, because Tsurugi shook his head and let out a soft sigh. “Besshitsu-san might not be able to claim the position in full, Madara-sama, but in the hearts and minds of the clan, he is your bride.”

His chin tipped up, and his oil-black eyes fixed upon Madara’s own. “He occupies that place in your heart, at the very least.”

“Yet he is still ‘besshitsu-san,’” Madara groused.

“That is but a title.”

“It is a reminder of his sacrifice,” Madara corrected. 

“He is dear to you, and as needful as water to the village’s inhabitants,” Tsurugi reminded, “and he will be remembered and recorded as such.”

“Yet beside my name on the family registry,” Madara snapped back immediately, “will still be an empty space when it should be his name.” He clicked his teeth together and hissed out hard through them. “His name will not be linked to mine even in the supplementary registries like the concubines who had no sons who became clan heads.” The fate of his own birth mother if Uchiha Tajima had chosen Izuna as his heir instead of Madara.

Madara dragged his hand through his hair. “No matter how beloved he is to me, Tsurugi, in the registries of Uchiha he will be considered nothing more than a plaything.”

And the importance of the registries could not be understated: they were the _only_ written records of the Uchiha. If their record-keepers died, if the clan was wiped out due to some massive, apocalyptic event, then those lists of names would be all that was left of the Uchiha.

Of course, the idea that anything could annihilate the clan so entirely was ludicrous. But Madara couldn’t and didn’t want to take any possibility that Tobirama’s significance in his life could ever pass from common knowledge, much less vanish entirely. 

Tsurugi was silent for long moments. “Madara-sama,” he said finally. “I would like to advise you again that attempting to convince the Daimyo to allow for men to be wives is an uphill, thankless, and ultimately futile task.”

Still keeping his eyes fixed forward on the looming gates of his own compound, Madara sighed. “Do you think I don’t know that?” No matter the power he – or Konoha – gained, he would never be able to convince the Daimyo to change the laws. The Daimyo’s absolute refusal had nothing to do with his dislike and distaste of shinobi, but with the nature of marriage itself, which was directly affected by the definition of a family registry.

The reason why Tobirama would never be able to be recorded in either the main or the supplementary registries was, of course, his inability to give Madara children. The registry recorded not love, not affection, but _lineage._

Madara should be happy that most of his clan had started to run interference for him whenever the elders brought up that choosing Tobirama meant ending his own line. He should be thankful that his little brother was tolerant enough to take on the duties of continuing the main line in his stead. And Madara was glad and grateful for their acceptance of his choices, he was, but …

It wasn’t _enough_.

_Childish, _he could almost hear Mom’s voice chiding him. _When will you learn that stomping your foot and yelling at the top of your lungs won’t get you what you want, Madara-kun?_

Given his age and that he was still doing the same, Madara thought wryly in reply to a woman years-dead, he likely would never learn. And, if he was honest, he wasn’t quite surethat he _wanted_ to learn, because not making a fuss about being denied sounded almost entirely like giving up.

“I only hope,” Tsurugi said, drawing Madara’s attention back to him, “that you will not grow bitter with your failures.” His hands folded inside his sleeves. “The position you hold will be far too high to allow for such a thing.”

Madara looked at him for long moments. “I’m not a boy to be scolded anymore, you know,” he said finally. 

“This old man will not dare to scold you like you are, Madara-sama,” Tsurugi said, voice mild as he headed into the compound, one step ahead of Madara. “Neither am I such a fool.” When Madara cocked his head at him, the older man laughed.

“My warnings are meant for a _man_, Madara-sama,” he said, “for only men will be prey to bitterness, and only men in danger of allowing their cynicism to lead them to bad decisions. There is no need to fear such things from children.”

“Oh,” Madara said. He let out a long, low breath, releasing with it his rising irritation at Tsurugi, before he dipped his head. “Thank you.”

Tsurugi shook his head. “The fortune of a servant is a lord who listens, Madara-sama,” he said. Then, keeping his eyes on Madara, he swept into a shallow bow before turning to walk away.

Madara watched him go. There had always been a few strands of grey in Tsurugi’s hair for as long as Madara had known him, especially around the temples, but it was only now that he realised that white strands had joined them, glimmering underneath the late afternoon light, and the black was almost entirely gone. If Madara was no longer a child, then Tsurugi had stopped being a young man a long time ago.

How strange, the sensation of looking at a man and realising that he had _aged_. Their lives that always been so fast, so violent, that it was rare to find someone with wrinkles caused by age instead of terror and sorrow, and rarer still to be able to look at them without feeling the heart rise to the throat with the fear of losing them.

Had Dad even reached Tsurugi’s current age when he died? It wasn’t only the guilt and grief that had deteriorated his body and killed him, but also the dawning realisation that he was slowing down and the countdown clock to his death had already started ticking.

Closing his eyes, Madara shook his head free of those thoughts. There would be time and peace enough for Tsurugi and all others of his generation to grow old without fear. In fact, Madara couldn’t even think of _himself_ aging until grey streaked his hair, or even a time when the white of his and Tobirama’s hair would match.

It was with those thoughts tugging up his lips that he reached his own house. Madara kicked the gate back shut behind him and strode past the garden with only the barest glance to the tiny koi swimming in circles in the small pond that Shiomi had insisted that every clan head should have, to head up the engawa.

“I’m home,” he declared loudly, and slammed the door open.

“Welcome back,” a familiar and dearly-beloved voice floated from the depths of the house. Madara was already striding in that direction when Tobirama continued, “Do you ever announce yourself so loudly when the house is empty?”

“Of course not,” Madara snorted. With one hand on the doorframe, he took in the sight of his beloved concubine seated in their sitting room, feet tucked under him in seiza. One of his hands was encased in a silk glove Madara had never seen before, and the fingers tracing the ink scrawled upon the paper of one of his books. 

“Does it work?” he asked, voice soft.

“No,” Tobirama said. He closed the book and put it away carefully enough, but the glove he practically ripped off his skin and glared so hard at it that Madara suspected that he was trying to set it on fire without the Mangekyou.

Tobirama had been attempting to create items that could help him read using chakra sight. In the last four years, he had come up with four different kinds of items, and none of them had worked. Madara wondered – and knew he wasn’t the only one – how it was that Tobirama was so successful with creating things that could help others, and yet faltered so badly whenever he tried to better his own life. 

No matter. If Tobirama could not find a way, Madara would. And he was so terribly close to it, too.

Now wasn’t the time to tell Tobirama that, however. Madara walked into the room instead, kicking off the house slippers as he stepped onto the tatami. His arms wrapped around Tobirama’s shoulders, feeling the younger man’s shivering sigh against his own chest, and tipped his head back.

It had been years since their first kiss, and there had been thousands of kisses since. Yet Madara still felt the same striking thrill when Tobirama’s body melted against his; he was still wreaked by the fierce desire when Tobirama’s lips parted beneath his tongue, when his beloved concubine’s hand clutched at his sleeve and made soft, welcoming noises in response to Madara’s touch and chakra.

He was genuinely glad that Izuna had all but moved in with Touka and Hikaku all the way in the Senju compound, because there were many nights when he could not help but unleash the urge to make Tobirama scream.

There was a trail of saliva between their lips when they finally parted, a silver shimmer that caught the sunlight. Madara cupped Tobirama’s cheek, thumb running over the bone, and smirked to himself when he felt a small tremor beneath his thumb. If the blindfold wasn’t in the way, Madara thought, he would be able to see just how dazed Tobirama looked.

They sat there, breathing in each other’s exhales, for long moments. Then Madara cocked his head and pressed a smile to Tobirama’s jaw as he asked, “Do you want to go to Uzushio in the summer?”

“In the summer?” Tobirama asked, head tipping to the side to give Madara access to the soft, smooth skin of his throat. “For how long?”

“A week or two in July,” Madara answered. It was May now, spring having nearly run its course through the lands; if they answered by the end of this week, then Hayase and the others would have barely enough time to make preparations to receive them. “Would you like to do so?”

“You haven’t seen much of Uzushio,” Tobirama murmured.

“And I have no interest in doing so,” Madara said, dry. “If we go, Tobirama, it’ll be because you want to.”

Years ago, Madara wouldn’t have said such a thing, because he knew that Tobirama would immediately demur for fear of bringing inconveniences and minor annoyances into Madara’s life. But Madara hadn’t spent all of this time lavishing Tobirama with love and affection without result; he knew that Tobirama would genuinely consider if he wanted to go if Madara asked him. He knew, too, that Tobirama had learned, at least a little, how to identify his own desires.

“It would be good,” his beloved concubine said eventually, “to see Isobu again.” A corner of his mouth twitched up. “Matatabi would like to, too, no matter how much she protests.”

As if to punctuate his words, Tobirama’s neck and shoulders shimmered with blue fire. Madara kept his arm where it was – he knew by now that these flames would not burn him – and cocked an eyebrow up as Matatabi peeled herself away from her jinchuuriki to land on the tatami. When mismatched eyes turned to stare at him, Madara arched his other brow at the bijuu – now the size of a housecat – before Matatabi huffed and sauntered out of the door.

Madara knew without asking that she was likely headed to sun herself in the garden.

“I believe,” Madara said, turning his attention back to nuzzling the spot under Tobirama’s left ear, “we’re heading to Uzushio in the summer.”

“A pity that Aneue would not be able to come with us,” Tobirama murmured. 

“True,” Madara nodded. Mito’s pregnancy would be far too advanced by then for her to travel so far even by palanquin, and she had never particularly liked piggybacking on Tobirama’s Hiraishin. “Perhaps she could visit next year instead.”

“Most likely,” Tobirama said. Then he was pulling away from Madara, placing inches between their faces before he licked his lips, pink tongue flashing over reddened lips. “I have something for you,” he said.

“Hn?”

“It’s not entirely finished yet,” Tobirama explained, extracting an entire sentence from one distracted noise Madara had made. “But it is close enough to completion that I can be confident that it _will_ be done, and…” His mouth quirked up at the side. “I figured that you and the others will need a warning so you can prepare to explain it to the village.”

“A jutsu on the scale of that which threatened the extinction of war?” Madara asked. 

“Very close,” Tobirama nodded.

“I have something for you too,” Madara said, lips twitching despite himself. “Close enough to completion that I need time, rather than inspiration, to finish it. Though,” he pressed another smile against Tobirama’s jaw, “you don’t have to warn anyone about it, because it’s wholly for you.”

Tobirama stilled. “Do you mind?” When Madara made a questioning noise, Tobirama chuffed under his breath. “That my gift is not only for you, but for the village as a whole.”

Laughter escaped him before he could stop it. Shaking his head, he settled himself more behind Tobirama, wrapping an arm around that slim waist. Tobirama’s final growth spurt might have resulted in him having an inch or so on Madara, but when they were seated, it was still easy enough for him to hook his chin over Tobirama, which he promptly did.

“Wouldn’t it be inefficient,” he drawled, “if the present you make for me doesn’t have a use in the wider world?”

“Are you calling yourself inefficient?”

“Sentimental,” Madara corrected, fingers trailing down Tobirama’s arm until he found his hand. “And without the ability to be so while working for the village’s good, unlike you.”

“You just insulted yourself again,” Tobirama said, mirth coiling tight around his words even as his fingers linked with Madara’s and tightened. “Or is that supposed to be an explanation for how you’re keeping me captive here instead of allowing me to get you your gift?”

Madara blinked. “I thought it’s not finished?” 

“It’s not,” Tobirama confirmed. “But I wanted to show you what I have.” There was a hint of a sly smile on his lips as he continued, “Or I could simply show you my notes, and you can come to your own conclusions.”

Despite the cold chill that went through Madara’s spine at the memory of Tobirama doing his own writing – he had managed _that_, but it was neither a pleasant nor tenable solution because there were few ways to imbue ink with enough chakra for it to be ‘seen’ by chakra sight, no matter how strong the latter was, and all of those methods caused harm to the user – Madara kept his voice calm as he asked, “Tell me instead?”

“You still don’t like the look of my notes,” Tobirama noted.

“I don’t like the fact that you have to mix your own blood into the ink so that you can use it,” Madara sighed. Then, to take the sting off his words, he brushed a feather-light kiss over Tobirama’s temple. “I like listening to you, anyway.”

“Mm,” Tobirama said. The mirth in his voice had been replaced by a wry sort of resignation, as if Madara was being unreasonable _again_ and Tobirama had no idea how to steer him back to proper, logical behaviour. “Alright.”

At least he didn’t try to argue about how it was absolutely vital for him to write his own notes, Madara thought wryly to himself.

“Tell me what this new innovation is,” Madara prompted. “Tell me how you’re going to upend our world again.”

“It’s not that dramatic,” Tobirama protested, mild. “I’ve only…” the fingers of his free hand tapped lightly on the forearm wrapped around his waist. “I’ve found a way for me to give you children.”

Madara blinked. He could _feel_ his brain screeching to a halt. “What?”

“I found a way for me to—” he stopped talking because he couldn’t continue while Madara had his hand over his face.

“Unless things have changed since last night, Tobirama,” Madara said, exerting effort to ensure that his voice remained level, “you are a man, and so am I.”

Tobirama’s head tilted to the side. Even though his eyes and brows and a good part of his nose were all covered by the blindfold, while his mouth was covered by Madara’s hand, Madara could _feel_ the incredulity of his expression. He sighed, and dropped his hand.

Then Tobirama started to explain. 

Madara had been learning and mastering sealing theory for the past four years, and he was confident enough now to say that he had some skill in it. Still, it took some mental scrambling before he could actually keep pace with Tobirama’s explanation. Which really wasn’t a surprise: Madara’s four years were nothing in comparison to Tobirama’s deep study for over a decade.

The basics of it were these: using seals, Tobirama could draw out the characteristics of the opposite sex that were hidden within the template of every human body, and therefore force said body to change to suit it. But, Tobirama elaborated, it wasn’t a _full_ sex change, because to do so would overwhelm the body too much, especially if the changes were supposed to remain for longer than a year.

“Why?” Madara asked. “Pregnancies don’t take that long.”

“Children not only need to be born, husband,” Tobirama answered, sounding amused, “but also fed.”

“True enough,” Madara acknowledged, though a part of his mind froze and shuddered at the thought of Tobirama _feeding _their children from his own body. “Is that why you don’t want to change the sex entirely?”

“Exactly,” Tobirama said, nodding. “Maintaining the changes will take chakra,” modified seals for preservation, Madara remembered, which were powered by a separate set of seals that stored chakra, “and the more changes there are, the more chakra is required.” Tobirama let out a long breath. “If I create a jutsu that could entirely change a person’s sex, and to keep the changes for over a year, only Matatabi and Kurama would have enough.” He paused. “Anija and Aneue would, too, but they would be terribly drained afterwards.”

“Hah,” Madara nodded. “So, what are the changes?”

“Only what is absolutely necessary,” Tobirama told him in what was, Madara was certain, meant to be a reassuring tone. It was enough for him to hold up his hand, and turn his head to nuzzle Tobirama’s temple so his beloved concubine knew that he wasn’t angry or impatient with him.

“I’d rather you show me when it’s complete,” Madara said, and grinned slightly when he felt Tobirama shiver against him. “It’s not yet, right?”

“No,” Tobirama shook his head, making small wisps of hair tickle Madara’s cheek. “The only part that remains is the chakra storage seal: I still need to adjust it so that it only draws the amount of chakra necessary for the entire time.” He paused. “Right now, it has a tendency to drain a person’s chakra entirely, and for the jutsu that will allow a woman to impregnate like a man, that’s far too much.”

“And for the jutsu that allows a man to be impregnated and give birth,” Madara said slowly, “that won’t be enough?”

“I thought that wasn’t necessary to be said,” Tobirama said, frown audible in his voice.

Even though he knew he shouldn’t, Madara found himself tossing his head and laughing. “Right,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s obvious enough without being said.”

“Obviously,” Tobirama huffed. After a moment, he said, in a far quieter tone, “You’re taking this rather well.”

He supposed he was. “Am I not supposed to?” he asked. “This is your gift to me, Tobirama; am I supposed to start screaming and shouting in rejection?” 

“I was expecting at least a little of that,” Tobirama admitted, shrugging slightly. “This is not entirely a conventional idea.” 

However casual and dismissive Tobirama was trying to make himself to appear, Madara knew better: he could feel the tension in the stiff spine pressed against his own chest, could feel the stiffness in the fingers curled around his own. He let out a long breath.

“Tobirama,” he said, keeping his voice soft. “I have seen you accomplish the impossible: Touka’s new heart, Hikaku’s new legs. Not to mention this village, this very peace, and even the grumpy cat who has taken residence inside your head and heart.” When Tobirama let out a breath that was nearly a laugh, Madara grinned and pressed a lingering kiss to the corner of his lips. 

“You made this for me,” he said softly. “I am selfish and stubborn; I refuse to yield to any and all attempts by others to convince me that I should take a wife that is not you.” He nudged a few wisps of white hair with his lips before he let out a shuddering sigh against Tobirama’s temple. “Instead of chiding and guilting me into marriage like your duties state that you should, you have once again made the impossible possible for my sake.”

“Not only yours,” Tobirama refuted. “Izuna, Touka-nee, Hikaku-san. Even some of the Senju.” The men who were trapped within the clan would no longer be once they found someone agreeable to allowing them to marry into their clan instead. And there would be plenty who were willing. “But, Madara, I did this for myself most of all.”

Madara’s breath hitched. “Yourself?”

“It is my failing that led to this untenable situation that we have found ourselves in,” Tobirama said. Then, before Madara could ask, he let out a little laugh. “My inability to open my mouth to convince you to take a wife, no matter how necessary it is to your clan and bloodline. My inability to provide you with an heir.” Nowadays, when his smile reached his eyes, Madara could see it in the minute creases that peeked from beneath the black blindfold; there were none now despite the stretch of lips. “Thus, with this, I have merely made penance for my mistakes.”

“Do you really think those are mistakes?”

“There is no better word to describe them,” Tobirama told him, sinking further into his arms when Madara tightened his grip around his waist. 

“Have I taught you selfishness, then?” Madara murmured.

“You taught me _possessiveness_,” Tobirama corrected, voice tight with wistfulness twined around the syllables. “You have taught me not only to hold something to be precious, but also to claim it as _mine_.”

Madara’s breath hitched.

How difficult had that been for Tobirama to learn? How much harder had it been for him to express? Madara remembered a boy who offered himself wholly and completely, willing to sacrifice not only his body and the only home he had ever known, but also his name and place within the ancestral halls of the Senju.

When Tobirama had become his concubine, he became not only a symbol of subjugation; he became a hitobashira, nameless and unknown except for the body laid within the stones of a building, his sprit condemned to wander lost and hungry because he had no tablet to root him, and no descendants to lay out offerings.

He knew that Tobirama had not considered the changes having descendants would bring to his afterlife, and that made the lump in his throat grow even larger because— Tobirama could still too-easily discard his own name and life, but he had learned to hold onto one thing and one thing alone, and that was Madara.

His eyes burned.

“Tobirama,” he breathed. “Tobira.” His fingers carded through the grown-long hair, tugging on the strands too lightly to loosen them from their tails. 

Breathing hitching, Tobirama’s fingers tightened on Madara’s sleeve as he turned his head, lips smearing blindly over Madara’s jaw before he found his mouth and breathed out, near-stuttering, “Goshujin-sama.” _My husband_.

Madara tested the next word on his tongue, felt once again the shape that he had kept tucked underneath his own tongue for so long. He had spent years hoping that he could give Tobirama this reply whenever his beloved called him _husband_, and now, he could. Now, Tobirama could be—

“Yome.” _My bride._

Trembling, Tobirama ripped himself away from him. Before Madara could reel him back, Tobirama’s hands were cupping his cheeks, callused fingertips dragging down the line of his jaw before Tobirama dragged him forward by the collar and crashed their mouths together.

“Wait,” Madara mumbled. But Tobirama wasn’t listening, his hand sliding behind Madara’s shoulder to crawl up the nape of his neck, nails scraping light over the sensitive skin in a way that he _knew_ would short Madara’s brain out entirely. But he had to— not yet— “_Wait_.”

Their lips parted with a noisy smack. Or was that the sound of Madara’s skull hitting the wooden floor? The slight throb in his head suggested the latter, but Madara was too preoccupied to care, trying to grab both of Tobirama’s wrists with one of his own hands. “_Wait_!”

“Why?” Tobirama snapped, a petulant edge to his voice.

Dragging a hand through his hair, Madara breathed out sharp and hard through his nose, trying to get rid of the heat rising in his groin. No time to focus on that now. “I have something for you,” he gritted out.

In response, Tobirama cocked his head. “I would’ve thought,” he paused to lick his lips slowly, “that’s a reason to continue, not to stop.”

Madara fought down a scream. It just had to be his luck that Izuna was home the first time Tobirama had pinned Madara down, practically rode his thigh, and told him in no uncertain terms that he knew exactly what desire like that meant. Izuna had taken every chance possible to alternate between accusing the two of them of being gross, and teaching Tobirama innuendo. 

Up until now, Madara still wasn’t sure if this was part of Izuna’s drawn-out assassination plot. The sight of his bride staring at him, lips swollen and reddened by kisses, wasn’t helping dissuade him any.

“Not that kind of present,” he said, voice gruff despite his best efforts. Another long breath. “Just— hold on.” Then, Madara shifted into a shunshin that took him to the doorway –barely escaping Tobirama’s lunging grab – and ran down the hallway.

Most of the houses in the village had few to no permanent dividing walls, though all of them, when built, allowed for the sliding walls to be locked and made permanent. The reason for this was, of course, that Tobirama – and the rest of them, but mostly Tobirama – had to come up with one overarching design that could fit the needs of every single family within the village, and what he decided on was to not decide at all, and instead to leave it up to whoever was living in the house.

This house, the Uchiha Clan Head’s residence, was one of the few exceptions in the entire village: it had been Madara who had designed it, not Tobirama. Well, _designed_ was to exaggerate: he had simply waved a hand and stated that he wanted exactly the same house he had had back in the old compound in the village. With some adjustments, of course, but almost entirely the same otherwise.

Thus, his study room was in exactly the same spot, his work desk was in precisely the same area, and he still kept everything important in the drawers right beneath them. Even the desk itself was the same, carried over from the old compound in a storage seal, because he had refused Hashirama’s offer to build them furniture.

He knew that Hashirama could talk and listen to wood. He wasn’t giving the man, best friend or not, such an easy way to spy on him.

Yanking the second drawer out – nearly hard enough to send it flying across the room – Madara dug his fingers into the sides. He lifted up all of the contents along with the false bottom, and slid one hand underneath until he touched silk, and pulled it up.

It could, Madara supposed, be described as a ribbon, though it was far too thick: the width greater than Madara’s wrist. The length was almost exactly that of his own arm, and every inch of the cloth was covered with tiny embroidery that, when Madara looked at it, made his fingertips throb with phantom pricking pain. He threw all of the drawer’s contents back inside without much care about where it all landed.

Then, turning to the doorway again, he shifted into shunshin, and rushed back to the sitting room where Tobirama was waiting in record time.

“Here,” he said, shoving the piece of cloth forward. It was only when Tobirama had taken it, soft skin brushing over Madara’s wrist, that Madara realised that, with the years he had spent on this thing, there should have been a little more ceremony. A little pomp, at least. 

“Seals,” Tobirama murmured, his voice breaking through Madara’s vague fantasies about redoing the last few minutes. “And the cloth… It’s the exact size of a blindfold.”

“Yes,” Madara said. He swallowed hard.

“What is it?” 

“It tires you.” Reaching forward, Madara cupped Tobirama’s cheek, brushing his thumb over the plain black blindfold he wore. “You might say that you have long grown used to forcing your chakra sense to give you visual input, Tobirama, but I know that the constant effort tires you out.” When Tobirama’s breath hitched again, his throat bobbing, Madara brushed the tips of his fingers down his bride’s jaw.

“This makes it effortless,” he said softly. “It also sharpens your chakra sense further, focusing on depth and precision instead of range.” He took the hand Tobirama wasn’t using to hold onto the blindfold, and brought it to his mouth to brush his lips over the knuckles. “When I tried it out, it allows me to tell the minute difference between the chakra of ink, and the chakra of paper.” 

Tobirama went very still. “Goshujin-sama,” he choked out, interrupting him. “You—”

“Facial expressions are still completely lost, no matter how hard I try, and I— I haven’t finished it yet,” Madara hurried to continue. “It’s not perfect but it works, I know it does, because I made a version using ink, but I’m not using that one because—”

“Ink smears, ink fades,” Tobirama interrupted, voice barely above a whisper. _But embroidery was permanent, _Madara finished for him. “This…” His thumb slid over the cloth again, nail dragging over the raised threads. “This is the Senju style.”

“Mito found someone to teach me,” Madara said simply. When Tobirama didn’t say a word in response, seemingly frozen where he sat, Madara added, nearly tripping over his words, “I’m not good at it, which is why it’s taking such a long time— I was planning to give it to on your birthday at the end of winter, because I’d have finished this one and another one by then, and you’ll be able to alternate them without having to wait for your only blindfold to be washed—

He stopped speaking, because Tobirama had placed a finger on his lips.

“Madara,” he said. “Goshujin-sama.” His throat worked for a few silent moments before he shook his head, hard. The blindfold fell to the floor, ignored and pushed aside, and a wretched sound tore out of him before he threw himself forward, grabbing both of Madara’s hands and pressing the knuckles against his own forehead.

“How—” his voice was so choked that it was nigh unrecognisable. “How long—”

“Ever since you lost your sight,” Madara told him. “I had to learn sealing theory first, and then a little of weaving,” the silk, of course, had to be treated properly so the remnants of the worms’ chakra would not mess up the sealwork, “before I had to pick up embroidery.” He let out a shaky laugh.

“If your mother was anything like the Senju women who taught me,” gentle and graceful and yet so terribly beaten down somehow, as if the clan’s tyrannical need for their gratitude had trampled their wills into nothing, “then I would have loved her.”

Tobirama let out a twisted, broken little sound. 

“I know you could have found ways around your blindness on your own,” Madara kept his voice soft. “You _did _do so, and very quickly, too. But—” he took a long, shaky breath, “this is a gift, Tobirama.”

Dry lips brushed over his knuckles. 

“You can consider it my selfishness,” he continued. “My inability to stand to the side and do nothing while you suffer.” When Tobirama started to shake his head, he stretched out his fingers and brushed the tips, light, over the lips he couldn’t see but could feel just fine. “My inability to listen when you say that you have no need to for help. My weakness in always wanting to be needed by you.”

“Goshujin-sama,” Tobirama whispered, reverent.

“Yome,” Madara returned. “You are of my household, are you not?”

Finally, _finally_, Tobirama lifted his head. Madara only had a moment to notice the darker patches of black on the blindfold before Tobirama scrambled forward, his arms wrapping around Madara’s neck and drawing him into a kiss, long and lingering.

When their lips pulled apart to breathe, they remained leaning against each other, Tobirama’s forehead pressed against Madara’s and their breaths ghosting over each other’s lips. Madara raised a hand, and swiped away the tears that had escaped through the plain black blindfold. The embroidered cloth, Madara realised, laid a little distance away from their knees in a pile of haphazard silk.

“Once, you said that I am a wonder,” Tobirama said, voice so quiet that Madara felt more than heard it. “But I can say the same of you, goshujin-sama.”

“Only as much as you are, yome,” Madara said, grinning despite himself. Maybe he would tire of calling Tobirama _yome_ eventually, but that seemed a time a long away.

“Do you mind that you still won’t be able to see faces, even with the blindfold on?” 

Tobirama tilted his head. Madara focused on the small, upward curve of his lips as pale fingers rose and brushed over his cheek.

“What need do I have to see the faces of many,” he whispered, “when I have long memorised the features of the one dearest to me?”

Madara swallowed hard. He opened his mouth— 

“_Nii-san_!”

Izuna had the worst fucking timing.

Carefully turning away from Tobirama’s face – and ears – Madara roared, “Go _away_!” Unfortunately, his little brother had never listened to him, because the stomping footsteps _approached_.

When Izuna appeared in the doorway, he was in the midst of running straight past it. Then, right as he vanished behind the frame, his eyes darted to the side and caught sight of them, and Madara was treated to the very amusing view of Izuna pinwheeling his arms and backtracking before he half-ran, half-fell into the room.

“Tobirama—” he started, and then, clearly, realised that Madara’s bride was in the room. “Oh. Nii-san, did he tell you already?”

“I did,” Tobirama answered, which gave Madara some time to stare at his little brother.

The usually neat tail was nonexistent, and Izuna’s generally-straight, well-behaved hair was more of a bird’s nest. His tsumugi was folded correctly, left over right, but the obi sash was coming loose with an end trailing down to his ankle. And, most damningly, his cheeks were splotched with red at parts, and he kept shifting from one foot to another as if—

Oh, for— Madara blinked. “Izuna,” he said slowly. “Kemuri-sama—”

“Since when are you calling me that—”

“Did you happen to cross the village right after having sex?!” He nearly shrieked the words. “Without changing your clothes, or taking a bath, or— or—” He flapped a hand. “It’s in the middle of the day!”

Izuna gave him a very flat look and, lifting his own hand slowly, gestured to where Tobirama was seated in his lap.

“I am in my own _house_,” Madara yelped. “Not sauntering around in the village!”

“Are you telling me that you’ve never—”

“At least try to have some _discretion_, isn’t your relationship supposed to be an open secret—”

“_Not anymore_!” Izuna slapped his hands over his own mouth, eyes very wide as his shout echoed and bounced around the room. He squeezed his eyes. “It doesn’t have to be unacknowledged anymore, Nii-san, because…” He trailed off, eyes darting to Tobirama.

Oh. “Tobirama,” Madara said slowly. “Did you tell _Izuna_ about this before you told me?”

“I told Touka-nee,” Tobirama corrected, sounding utterly unapologetic that his present to Madara was known to other people before Madara could get to know it. “And Aneue had known about it since I started working on it.” 

For a brief moment, Madara wanted to strangle Mito, pregnancy or not: she knew that he was working on the blindfold, and knew, too, that Tobirama was working on this jutsu. How long and how often had she giggled at the two of them for the efforts that they were pouring into making secret gifts for each other?

Then Tobirama dropped his hands to the tops of his own thighs, forcing Madara to abandon all thoughts of Mito. “They should be the only ones who knew,” he finished.

“Touka told Hikaku and me,” Izuna provided helpfully. “Which means that the only one among the seven of us who still doesn’t know is Hashirama.”

“Why?” Madara tried to keep the word away from sounding like a whine; he really did.

“Because,” Tobirama said, “you need the others to help you figure out how to sell this idea to the village, goshujin-sama.” 

Maybe, Madara thought, barely fighting down the grin, Tobirama was as enamoured with calling him ‘husband’ as Madara was with calling him ‘my bride.’ 

Izuna cleared his throat. When Madara slanted his gaze over to his brother, the idiot had his arms crossed. “I’m feeling neglected here,” he complained.

“Go away, then,” Madara suggested. When Izuna didn’t move, he sighed. “Are you here to help me find ways to sell this to the village?”

“Nah,” Izuna said. “I’m here to declare that given that Tobirama can now have your heirs and you guys are likely going to get on with that as soon as I leave—”

“The jutsu isn’t _finished_ yet,” Tobirama protested.

“—you’re just going to practice making babies, then,” Izuna corrected himself seamlessly, “I’m flinging my position as clan heir to your face and eloping to become Touka’s wife.”

“If you elope,” Tobirama said, voice nearly idle, “Shiomi-san will likely murder you. She has been complaining for years that neither you nor goshujin-sama seemed willing to have a traditional Uchiha wedding, and how much of a travesty she thinks that to be.”

Izuna blinked. “If I marry out,” he said slowly, “it’ll be a traditional Senju wedding.”

“Touka-nee would agree to an Uchiha-styled wedding,” Tobirama refuted peaceably. “She’s likely to suggest it, actually.” He paused. “That is, of course, if she needs to have a wedding in the first place.”

“She’s the Senju Clan Head and the village’s Jounin Commander, and Izuna is the village’s Kemuri,” Madara said, amused despite himself. “If you two elope, Izuna, the entire village will come after you because they’ll feel insulted at not having been invited to the nuptials of such important figures.”

Not to mention that this would be the first marriage where the woman was the husband and the man was the wife. Touka and Izuna would be setting extremely important precedents here.

Dropping to sit on the floor, Izuna dropped his head into his hands. “Fuck,” he said empathetically.

“If you start planning now,” Madara said, not even hiding his mirth, “you might actually get it done by the time Tobirama finishes the jutsu, we debut it to the village, and I convince the Daimyo to change the laws.”

“Does a traditional wedding truly take that long to prepare for?” Tobirama asked, sounding mystified. 

“It’s not just the traditional part,” Madara said. “It’s the fact that Touka is a Clan Head and Izuna is a clan heir; practically the entirety of both clans will be involved.”

“Hah,” Tobirama said, sounding thoughtful. “It’s a good thing, then, that I entered your household as a concubine?”

Izuna’s head jerked up. “Hey—” he started.

“No,” Madara cut him off. “Tobirama will have his name written in the registries and a space saved in the ancestral halls for his tablet, and that will be enough. There will be no goddamned circus of a wedding for the two of us.” He bared his teeth at his brother. “I leave that to you and Touka.”

Tobirama added his agreement to the notion by placing his cheek on Madara’s shoulder. Madara draped his arm over those still-thin shoulders, and nuzzled Tobirama’s temple lightly.

“_Ugh_,” Izuna said. Madara wasn’t sure if it was in response to his interrupted suggestion being so soundly trounced, or to the show of affection. He didn’t particularly care.

“If that’s all…” he prompted his brother.

“Telling you I’m marrying Touka is one thing,” Izuna said. “The second thing is to tell you that Hikaku will also be marrying Touka, as her concubine.”

“Hikaku agreed to that?” Madara arched a brow.

“There is no way any Uchiha aside from me will agree to _me_ being the concubine, given that I’m clan heir,” Izuna pointed out. “Which means that Hikaku will have to take that position.” He paused. “And neither Touka nor I will allow him to be left out.”

“Given how much effort the three of you have taken to stay together,” Tobirama drawled, words slightly crushed by Madara’s neck, “I don’t think that’s a consideration in either of our minds.”

“We’re not stupid, Izuna,” Madara rolled his eyes. “I’m asking because, unless the Senju have more egalitarian measures with their records,” which he severely doubted, “Hikaku’s name might end up vanishing.”

“That’s not an issue,” Izuna waved a hand. “Touka says that Senju records the presence of concubines no matter whether or not they have kids, and the name of the concubine who has the eldest child will be written down.” He spread out his hands. “Guess we know who’s having the first kid.”

“I’ve only told you about this a few hours ago,” Tobirama said, sounding mystified as he lifted his head from Madara’s shoulder. “And you have already planned your lives to the order of your future children?”

“We’re motivated,” Izuna shrugged expansively. “Now you’ve actually found us a shovel, we’re using it to dig the paths to the destination that we figured out long ago.” 

“So,” Madara said, barely resisting the urge to snap his fingers. “That’s two things. Is there a third or…”

“There is a third,” Izuna said, voice unnaturally solemn. Then, when Madara’s eyes narrowed at him, he grinned wide enough to show all of his teeth. “I wanted to be the first to do this.” He scrambled up to stand.

Then, his eyes fixed upon Tobirama. As Madara watched, lips parting despite himself, Izuna dipped his chin down. His left foot swept out into a circle before his left knee bent. The right knee followed, and Izuna knelt in front of them without a sound. Slowly, deliberately, his arms rose, fingers forming a triangle above his head before lowering down to the floor.

As Izuna’s forehead touched the triangle of tatami exposed by his fingers, he said, “This little brother greets his elder brother’s bride.” His dark eyes were very bright as he lifted them. “And asks for permission to address him as ‘Aniue.’”

Madara could feel the moment when the words registered: in his arms, Tobirama froze.

“This little brother,” Izuna continued, head tipping up to fix his gaze on Tobirama, “does not wish and will not dare to replace those you have lost. He merely wishes to acknowledge you as his elder brother, just as you look to your own elder brother’s wife as your older sister.”

Tobirama’s lips parted. A long moment passed in which he kept his head facing Izuna without saying a word. Madara stared at him, and fought down a smile. 

He wondered if Tobirama had the cognizance to understand Izuna’s choice: not _aniki_, not _nii-chan_, but _aniue_. The term that implied the most respect, even more than his actual blood brother and clan head.

Likely not. He hoped he was present when Tobirama finally realised and decided to confront Izuna about it. The argument would be, he suspected, very amusing.

Then he was scrambling out of Madara’s lap, knees smacking hard against the floorboards. He didn’t flinch, didn’t even seem to notice, before he mirrored Izuna’s position. Except, instead of placing his forehead to the floor, he sat with his back straight and head tipped down.

“Your elder brother’s wife,” he said, voice half-choked but steady with the weight of his emotions, “gladly takes you as a little brother.” His lips trembled as he smiled. “Sit up, otouto. Your Aniue has no need for you to prostrate yourself so.”

“Good,” Izuna said, smirking widely as he straightened his spine. “Because my respect doesn’t reach that far.” He paused. “And I haven’t forgotten that you’re younger than me.”

Tobirama lifted his hand and, very gently and patronisingly, patted Izuna on the cheek. “If reminding yourself of that makes you feel better, otouto,” he said, “then Aniue will not stop you.”

“It has been thirty seconds and you’re already annoying,” Izuna said, awed.  
_  
_“You literally,” Tobirama cocked his head, “asked for it.”

“Yeah,” Izuna said, and Madara knew it wasn’t the light of the setting sun or his own bias that made Izuna’s eyes gleam so brightly. “I really did.”

Shifting forward, he wrapped one arm around Tobirama’s shoulders. The other hand he used to grab hold of Izuna’s arm and drag him into a hug.

“Ow,” Izuna complained immediately. “Nii-san—”

“Shut up,” Madara said amiably. Then he did something he hadn’t done since Izuna was a child too young to go on the battlefield: he turned his head and gave a loud, smacking kiss to the top of his little brother’s head, an inch away from the strands of ink-dark hair.

Izuna stopped his fake struggles immediately, leaning against Madara’s side, seemingly rather shocked. On his other side, Tobirama shifted until his entire body was plastered against Madara’s, and rested his cheek back on his favourite spot on the curve of a shoulder again.

Madara lifted his head. Right in front of him was one of the changes he had made to the old building: a massive, latticed window in the stone wall that let the light but not rain in. From here, he could see the path from the front of the house: if he took the left when exiting, he would first reach the Academy and the Hokage’s residence. Further from that would be the Senju compound.

He had his bride and his brother by his side. His best friend and his greatest teacher were but a few steps away, and his future sister- and brother-in-law were only a couple of shunshin more.

“Remind me,” he said softly, “for thanking Kurama for the stroll he took.”

_End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kumate – 熊手 (literally: “bear” + “hand”) is the name for a handheld rake.
> 
> Yes, this is the ‘official’ end of the fic, though there is still an Epilogue. And no, there’s no porn, and there will never be porn. But if you want porn, here, [drelfina wrote some](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24468418) lol.
> 
> To go back to talking about Western vs East Asian models of gender, Madara’s section directly contrasts Touka’s in the last chapter, because his is focused on the _East Asian_ model of gender, which is focused on roles. The East Asian model is not about whether you _can_, but whether you _should_; because every role is necessary for society, and rejecting a role means leaving a vacuum that can lead to disaster. For example, if every single person goes out to become breadwinners, then who will watch the children? In fact, who will _have_ the children? (Not having kids is not an option, because of family registries and family lines.)
> 
> To put it simply: Western gender models are focused on the cock and the vagina, while East Asian gender models focused on someone thrusting and someone lying on their backs. (Which explains why a lot of yaoi isn’t considered ‘gay’ in Japan; to the Japanese, yaoi at the start is just heterosexual sex with two male bodies.)
> 
> This is already simplified. Further complexity comes next chapter, the Epilogue, that will take place approximately forty years after this one. The POV character will be someone entirely different, but all of you will recognise him just finef. :3


	31. Epilogue I: as the wheel turns and turns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** Again, this Epilogue takes place some forty years after the previous chapter, and it’s mostly to show off Konoha closer to the time of canon.
> 
> There is even more explicit discussion of genderfuckery that’s outlined in the previous two chapters, because now it’s a matter of lived experience. In other words: very descriptive biological explanations of sex-switching and gender-muddling (especially with regards to mpreg), discussions of the misuse of a jutsu that resulted in a bit of body dysphoria, explicit discussion (but not portrayal) of mpreg, and mentions of abortion.

Standing on top of one of the tallest trees outside of Konoha’s gates, Sakumo frowned down at the heavily-veiled figure right below him. Pale hair – white with the barest hint of blue, entirely unlike the Hatake grey – swayed as the man finished speaking with the guards and settled his hands into his voluminous sleeves.

What the hell was Katou- _Uzumaki_ Dan doing, heading out of the village barely two months after his wedding? Not to say that Dan couldn’t do what he wanted, of course, but Sakumo was very surprised; Tsunade was well-known for her possessiveness. Unless, of course—

“Are you going to keep skulking up there,” a voice interrupted his thoughts rudely, “or are you going to come down and greet me properly?” 

Dan had a way of projecting his voice that made it ring out, sharp as a whistle, even across an entire forest. Sakumo wondered if it was one of those skills instinctive to people who chose to become wives, or if Dan had learned it from becoming a commander. 

(Wait, did that mean that most commanders would actually become wives? Projecting like that was a very useful skill when it came to having to herd battalion of kids into the same direction, after all. Or was Sakumo conflating the description of ‘wife’ with that of a ‘teacher’ again? Enough teachers became wives that the lines between the two are surely blurred—)

“Come on down already,” Dan urged. “I can practically see your hair smoking from how hard you’re thinking.” 

Jumping down, Sakumo huffed and crossed his arms. It was impossible to see Dan’s eyes through the veil, but he had seen that thing on him enough to know exactly where those light eyes were located beneath the heavy cloth. “That’s not smoke,” he informed his ex-teammate tartly. “That’s my hair.”

“Did you steal that line from Jiraiya,” another voice drawled from behind Dan, “or did Jiraiya steal it from you?”

Unlike Dan, whose hands were free enough to be tucked into the billowing sleeves that he liked so much, Tsunade had a backpack slung across one shoulder. The barest glimpses of late winter sunlight pouring down skimmed over the tight, black sleeves that ended in a half-glove which covered her hands to the last knuckle and left the fingers free.

“He stole it from me, of course,” he answered distractedly. Then, he turned away and started looking _past_ her instead, placing a hand horizontal to his forehead and tiptoeing to exaggerate the point.

“They’re not here,” Tsunade sighed. “Jiraiya is somewhere in Taki, and Orochimaru’s been stuck in his lab for the past three days.”

“You can’t blame me for expecting them to be around you,” Sakumo reasoned. “You three weren’t named the ‘Sannin’ for nothing.” Well, to be specific, they were named for the fact that they always knew where each other was even when they had reached jounin (together and at the same time, of course) and started taking confidential missions. Even when they further separated into their various specialties, they still knew _everything_ of each other’s actions and activities.

The jounin station had jokes that ‘co-dependency’ should just be renamed ‘Sannin syndrome.’

“Stuck as in someone locked the door on him, or…?”

Dan snorted. “He’s caught up in some fascinating new research,” he said, wry. “The last I saw him, he was babbling something about using the regeneration seal to modify DNA.” He paused. “Then he cut himself off and started cackling like a maniac, as usual, and everyone knows that’s the cue to leave.”

“Really?” Sakumo blinked. “I’ve never left, though, because he’s cute when he starts doing that.” That was Orochimaru’s way of showing that he was _excited_, after all.

Tsunade gave him a look so flat that Sakumo had the distinct feeling that she wanted to punch him underground. He changed the subject quickly, “What the fuck is Jiraiya doing in Taki that’s taking so long?” Then he realised Jiraiya’s job – the apprentice and likely successor of their Kemuri Sarutobi Danzou – meant that no one could answer his question, and waved a hand.

“Where are the two of you going?” he asked instead.

“The capital,” Dan answered, tipping his head back. The ends of his veils brushed, gentle and graceful, over his collarbones even as his neck gave a few very loud, very ungentle cracks. “The Daimyo requested top-ups for some of his nobles.”

Sakumo’s brow hiked up before he could stop himself. “When did Hokage-sama start sending newlyweds for minor chores?”

“Torifu-sama didn’t send us,” Dan shook his head. “We volunteered.” 

“It’s like a slightly belated honeymoon,” Tsunade drawled, grinning at him from one corner of the mouth. “Besides, the women who need the top-ups are ones who are familiar with the two of us, and with civilians, it’s easier to have the same shinobi continue treatments throughout.”

Because, Sakumo continued for her mentally, the daughters of the Daimyo and his favoured lords might be allowed to change permanently so that they could become heads of households and father children, but the nobles of the capital still tended to bring up their women as if they were fragile flowers instead of the warriors they were supposed to become once they reached their majority.

Come March, it would be exactly thirty-eight years since the Nidaime Hokage, Uchiha Madara, brought his year-old firstborn and the Equaliser jutsu his then-concubine had created to the capital to demand for the laws to be changed. When he returned, Uchiha Tobirama carried with him an edict written by the Diamyo’s hand that both allowed him to be Madara’s wife and their child to be Madara’s heir despite the latter being born a girl. 

The then-Daimyo, father to the current one, had been clever and opportunistic enough to seize the chance of creating more branch families for his clan by having his daughters father those branches, but that did not mean that the civilians adapted quickly. In fact—

“How’s the capital?” Tsunade asked, interrupting his thoughts. Her head tilted to the side as she continued, “You just came back from there, right?”

“Please let me continue to pretend that our dear Jounin Commander _doesn’t_ allow his ex-students to peek into the confidential mission files,” Sakumo said, dry. When Tsunade only shrugged, patently uncaring, he sighed. “It’s the same as always.” 

“Which means that I’m going to get comments, again, about how these,” Tsunade pointed at her own chest, “would be wasted since I won’t be using them to feed our future children.” Her tone turned mocking, “Like I _should_ be.” 

Dan snorted. “Meanwhile, I’d be praised for being ‘pretty enough’ to be a wife,” he said, tone turning dry as dust. “And of course I would choose to be a wife to _Tsunade_, because she is an _Uzumaki_ and thus ranked far higher than I am. It’s nothing to do with the choices we made or anything.”

“Civilians don’t have anything like the Academy or the shinobi system to make them see how stupid social ranks are,” Sakumo pointed out, rubbing the back of his neck. “Honestly, the reason why we even keep the nobility system here is because we need to give the Daimyo _some_ reassurance that we haven’t broken off entirely into our own.” He paused. “Though I still don’t see why we can’t do that.” 

“Leave me out of your plotting to overthrow the Daimyo, Sakumo,” Dan crossed his arms.

“Fine,” Sakumo tossed his head with exaggerated offence. “I’ll tell it all to _Dai_ instead,” he huffed.

Dan nodded as if that wasn’t an insult at all. “That’s a good idea.” That bastard even had an _encouraging _tone. “His enthusiasm will help bolster your motivation, at least.”

Sakumo sighed. “You’re the worst,”

“Most likely,” Dan nodded, placid. “Anyway,” he folded his hands inside his sleeves, “we have to go.”

“You’re going dressed like _that_?” Sakumo blinked.

When Tsunade snorted, he turned towards her just in time to catch the last edge of her backpack being shoved into a sealing scroll roughly half the size of Sakumo’s forearm. Then, before he could say another word, she strapped that onto her shin, and dropped down immediately into a squat.

“Yes,” Dan said unnecessarily.

“Try to not get into too much shit before we come back,” Tsunade drawled, settling Dan’s arms around her shoulders before urging his ankles to cross above her hips. “You’d be depriving me of the prime entertainment of watching you running around screaming in panic.” 

Despite his best efforts, Sakumo couldn’t stifle the wince. He tried to hide it with a rude gesture to Tsunade, but she only arched an eyebrow and gave him yet another one of those flat stares.

“I preferred it when you were six years old and hiding in the corner of the classroom because you were scared of being bullied by all of the older students,” Sakumo grumbled. 

“Too bad,” Tsunade rolled her eyes, ruthless. “I could’ve beaten you up even then, by the way.”

When she had been six, he – and Dan, and Dai – were already ten. But he didn’t doubt her: the Sannin were the only ones who entered the Academy at five, and graduated at six. Granted, they were the only ones to do so because the three of them had complained – very loudly and very insistently – outside the Sandaime Hokage’s window about doing nothing but errands and academic research for six entire years before being allowed to take the chuunin exam, but still. It was an accomplishment.

He raised a hand and waggled his fingers. Dan snorted loudly, and that was all the goodbye Sakumo received before Tsunade moved into a shunshin that left the leaves rustling.

“Do I _finally_ get to tell you that our esteemed Jounin Commander is waiting for your report?” 

“Fuck’s sake, Shiranui,” Sakumo said, tilting his head back so he could look Shiranui Kanmuri in the eye. “you _asked_ for guard duty.”

Leaning across the railing of the ramparts, Kanmuri flicked his cigarette. The ash pieces were too small to fall on Sakumo, but he flapped his hands around his face away. “No, I asked for a duty that’d allow me to stay in the village,” the man drawled. “I didn’t ask to have to watch touching goodbyes and hellos every single day.”

Before Sakumo could reply, a small face popped up right beside Kanmuri’s on top of the parapet. Genma resembled his Inuzuka mother far more than his father, but the straw-brown hair was exactly the same, and swayed around the boy’s face as he said, solemnly, “Fuck.”

Sakumo snorted loudly. “Did Sarutobi-sama tell you why he wants to see me?” he asked.

“Your report, most likely,” Kanmuri shrugged. His hands clutched his son’s body below the armpits, and lifted him to sit on top of the wall. Genma kicked his legs back and forth as if he thought being so high up was great fun even though he wasn’t even old enough to be in the Academy yet.

“You,” Sakumo said solemnly, “are a terrible father. Ashi is going to murder you for doing that.”

“Nah,” Kanmuri said, ruffling his son’s hair and making the boy sway back and forth. “He’s seen me do it before, and said that it’d be good training.”

“Right,” Sakumo said. He shook his head. “If Sarutobi-sama comes over to ask you if I’ve come in, tell him I have.” He paused. “And the fact that he hasn’t seen me in his office yet is entirely his fault, not mine.”

“Uh huh,” Kanmuri said, sounding amused. “Of course it’s _his_ fault and not yours.”

“I’m glad you understand,” Sakumo threw back, and the ducked in through the gates before the bastard could close them on him. As the heavy boom of the gates closing reverberated through his bones, he looked straight ahead.

The Founders’ Monument was the first thing anyone saw when they entered Konoha, and could _only_ be seen once they had stepped through the gates; the walls surrounding the village were tall enough to block the view of it from the outside.

Uzumaki Hashirama, Shodaime Hokage, took prime position at the leftmost, his stern expression belied by the flowers and shells woven into the long hair that spilled over his right shoulder. On his right was Uchiha Izuna – as was appropriate given that Izuna was the Shodaime Kemuri – who stared straight ahead with pinwheels for eyes. Wires coiled around the curves of his ears, trailing down to red-painted beads that, Sakumo knew, were meant to represent the wedding gift that his husband, Senju Touka, had crafted for him with her own hands. 

Uzumaki Mito’s head took the place to the right of Izuna’s as part of the two who formed the centre of the six-person monument. As Hashirama’s wife, she wore earrings, too, but they were not nearly as interesting as the nine braids, all intricately-woven with seashells and flowers, that trailed down both shoulders. Though, Sakumo thought, no one would be looking at her hair when they could stare instead at the miniature – the size of several men, but tiny in terms of scale – Kurama who snoozed on top of her head. 

Beside Mito was the Nidaime Hokage, Uchiha Madara, with the Rinnegan in his left eye and the Mangekyou Sharingan in the other, his hair a wildfire behind him and no other accessories because he needed nothing but his hair and eyes to still be recognised at a glance throughout all five elemental countries.

To Madara’s right was his wife, Uchiha Tobirama. Every seal of his embroidered blindfold had been captured to the smallest detail, and Matatabi stood on his left shoulder. Her snout nudged against the seemingly-plain earring dangling: a single rod of red encased by twisting strips of black. Sakumo had seen the real things before – Tobirama was never seen without them, and rumours said that he had never taken them off once they were gifted to him – and they were solid cast iron surrounding a tongue of Madara’s chakra flame that burned not only for seven days, but eternity in representation of the Nidaime Hokage’s undying affection for and loyalty to his wife. 

Senju Touka guarded the rightmost side of the Monument. The last Senju Clan Head had red paint streaked all over her face and her naginata blade twisted and curved behind her shoulder, extending even beyond the cliff face like a statement about her inability to be contained.

Placing a hand on his chest, Sakumo dipped his head down slightly. “Thank you for bringing me home safely,” he murmured.

Perhaps it was silly for him to thank the Monument as if the spirit of the Founders resided in the stone, especially since all but one of them were still alive. But it was tradition, and one that even Sakumo’s Sensei, who was not only taught by one of the Founders but who had married into their family, had followed. So, really, how could he do otherwise?

“Sakumo!”

He didn’t need to turn around to recognise that voice. His hand was already rising in immediate response.

“Dai,” he greeted. Then he took a closer look at his friend and ex-teammate. “This is your… fifth circuit around the village?”

When Dai opened his mouth, Sakumo expected either an enthusiastic greeting or a very loud confirmation followed by an invite for Sakumo to join him. But what came out instead was: “Are you alright?”

Trust Dai to actually notice what Dan had missed and which Sakumo was trying desperately to not think about. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m going to see Sensei,” he said.

Even though he hadn’t graduated to chuunin with Dan and himself, and even now still had a few more years to go before he had a chance to be nominated for jounin, Dai wasn’t stupid. He was the oldest out of their team of three, and Sakumo suspected it wasn’t just his issues with chakra manipulation that made him fall behind; Dai likely paid too much attention to taking care of other _people_ that he found it difficult to focus on improving his jutsu.

And he had proof of it now when Dai straightened, hands falling to his side as his heavy brows creased at Sakumo. “Something happened during your mission,” he said.

“Something,” Sakumo echoed, neither agreeing or disagreeing. 

“Come,” Dai said, shoving out his arm. “I’ll walk with you.”

Sakumo stared at that proffered elbow. Something in his head started to shriek. He swallowed hard, and barely managed to croak out, “No thanks.” When Dai raised an eyebrow – Sakumo had never particularly minded pretending to hang off him before, especially when Dai had been trying to impress that one civilian girl who had become his wife and mother of his son – Sakumo shook his head hard.

“We can visit Sensei together,” he offered finally, “but uh, we can just… walk normally?”

“Alright,” Dai said.

They walked in silence, footsteps in tandem with each other. Sakumo kept glancing sideways, waiting for Dai to lose patience, to start prodding, or even to say that their little walk wasn’t nearly enough of a workout for him, and he would rather go back to running circuits around the village or whatever he was doing before bumping into Sakumo.

But Dai didn’t say a word. He had, Sakumo thought, always been sensitive and sensible enough to know when to stop asking questions, and to know when a friend needed his presence and not much else. Still, the only reason why Sakumo didn’t start fidgeting was because he was walking.

When a sharp bell clanged, he nearly tripped over his own feet in his effort to keep from jumping, and only stayed standing because of the tight grip that Dai had on his elbow. He had barely straightened himself when a roar of high-pitched voices practically deafened him. Dai did _not_ help by bursting out into laughter.

The children pouring out of the Academy all looked unbearably young, their cheeks still round with baby fat. There was one kid with blazing blond hair whose hand was held captive by – if Sakumo hadn’t lost his Uchiha-identification abilities entirely – Keigetsu’s third child and Izuna’s seventh grandchild, Mikoto. She was yelling in a way that was very _Uchiha_, and wove around the legs of the poor soul who had come to pick her up – a civilian, Sakumo hazarded, because he couldn’t recognise him; though it might be an Uchiha shinobi that he hadn’t met yet – while still dragging the blond kid by the hand. Said child looked rather used to the treatment.

“That’s Namikaze Minato,” Dai told him, having clearly realised that Sakumo was staring at those two particular children. “A remnant of a dying clan, from what I’ve heard.” He paused. “Mikoto-kun seems to have adopted him.”

“She’s an Uchiha,” Sakumo commented. “They have that tendency.” Dai caught his glance for a moment before bursting out laughing.

“True, that!” he announced to the village at large. 

“I’ll head over to the Sensei’s place from here,” Sakumo said, peeling his elbow out of Dai’s steady grip. “Thanks.”

“Any time,” Dai gave him a small salute. “That includes if you need an ear to listen, Sakumo.”

“You know,” Sakumo said, lips twitching, “I’m no longer one of those two kids that you have to pamper because Sensei was too busy trying to be strict so we would take him seriously when he tried to teach us.”

Dai clapped him on the shoulder, hard enough to make his bones vibrate a little, as usual. “We might not be bound by the necessities of team camaraderie, Sakumo,” he boomed, “but you will never convince me to not care for you!” 

“That’s not what I said,” Sakumo commented, mild.

“Still!” Dai slapped his back hard. “You remember that I will always stand by your side, don’t you, Sakumo?”

“Much appreciated,” Sakumo said, and threw him a thumbs up for good measure. Dai was so pleased by it that he promptly blinded Sakumo with his smile before he choked him with the dust he left by speeding away in a very fast run.

Sakumo stared after his retreating figure clad in the usual eye-searing green, and sighed. He shoved his hands into his pockets, and kept walking.

Sensei lived in what was – he had explained once – meant to be the Senju Clan Head’s residence in the Senju compound, but which now housed the members of the Uchiha Main Family. Only _meant_, Sensei had laughed, because Touka had never lived there and had never desired to; she had always lived in a much smaller and less ostentatious estate deeper inside the compound.

And this wasn’t even the Senju compound anymore: there had been far too few Senju in recent years to justify the size of the compound – one or two of their elders, the Clan Head, and a couple more of the Clan Head’s generation – and the Uchiha had started overspilling theirs from Sakumo’s father’s generation. So, given that the Senju were at the same distance from the Academy as the Uchiha, practically parallel to them when drawn on the map, the Uchiha had asked to use the empty spaces, and Senju Touka had agreed.

(The Senju hadn’t died in droves, of course, and neither had they been driven to extinction by the Uchiha; those were just stupid rumours started by either Kiri or Kumo to try to discredit the Uchiha. There were plenty of Senju still alive.

They simply didn’t carry the surname anymore. Even the Clan Head’s children were Uchiha; an unfortunate circumstance caused by the marriage contracts of both Uchiha Izuna and Uchiha Hikaku, which stated that any child born of them that had the Sharingan would have to be part of the Uchiha clan.

Sakumo’s father Maguwa had thought it a great pity; the Senju name had commanded a great deal of fear and respect in the Land of Fire and beyond, after all. Privately, Sakumo had known of two Senju in his entire life – the Clan Head, and his own grandmother, and the latter had always protested when she was reminded that she had not always been a Hatake.

Those outside of a Clan would only ever see the reputation it commanded, while those inside had far more associations and implications. Sakumo knew that, and so had never needed to ask why practically every Senju had chosen to shed their names even when they married as husbands.)

“Is there something particularly fascinating about my front gate, or are you waiting for the sky to fall before you knock?”

Stifling a yell – he really needed to _stop_ drifting off into random thoughts so he didn’t think about, well, _things_ he didn’t want to think about – Sakumo tried to transform his flailing arms and stumbling feet into something that, he hoped, was a bow. “Nidaime-sama!”

“Not anymore, remember?”

Uchiha Madara didn’t look very different from his sculpture on the Founders’ Monument: a great number of creases at the corners of the mouth, and even more at the sides of his eyes. But unlike the memories Sakumo had of him in his youth – his grandfather had been Madara’s assistant and watchdog, after all – the rich, near-blue black hair was gone.

Oh, the strands were still wild, and they still spilled down Madara’s back like an over-large porcupine. But they weren’t black anymore; they were all the white of fresh-fallen snow, and they had turned so the same day that he abruptly retired from the Hokage position – one that he had held for over thirty-five years – and dumped everything on Akimichi Torifu.

Sakumo had been away from the village when it happened, and though it might sound cowardly if he ever admitted it aloud, he knew he was _glad_ to not have been here.

“I’m looking for Sensei,” he finally managed to say after a few more expectant looks from Madara.

“Kagami’s at the koi pond,” Madara informed, nudging the gate open with a lazy sweep of his chakra. “If you see Matatabi with him, send her to me; she’s a terrible gossip.” 

“Thank you, Madara-sama,” Sakumo bobbed his head. Madara only gave him another amused smirk, and a wave of a hand, before he disappeared inside the house.

True enough – not that he was doubting Madara’s chakra sense, but the Uchiha had a reputation for playing tricks on their visitors – he found Sensei seated beside the koi pond. For reasons that Sakumo could not and did not want to understand, he was tickling Matatabi’s stomach with a blade of grass.

“Sit down, Sakumo-kun,” Uchiha Kagami said even before Sakumo could open his mouth. “Matatabi-sama, Madara-sama is home.”

“I know,” Matatabi yawned. Then she flopped over, fell off the bench that she had been lounging on, landed on four paws, and started sauntering to the house. “I’ll leave you to handle your little grey pup all on your own, Kagami.”

Sakumo considered, again, protesting the nickname, and then remembered, _again_, that arguing against an immortal bijuu was a waste of breath. He dropped to sit down next to Kagami instead, practically grabbing the bag of fish food from the seat and flinging a handful at the koi. Unfortunately, the _plop-plop-plop_ of the pellets landing in water brought him no real joy, and neither did the koi’s mad rush towards the food and their stupid faces when they ended up smashing into each other.

(_Why_ did the koi never expect to bump into each other? _How_ had Sakumo sunk to the depths of contemplating the intelligence – or lack thereof – of koi?) 

“You’re perturbed by something,” Kagami commented mildly.

Biting back to “no shit” that wanted to escape, Sakumo let out a heavy sigh. “Is it that obvious?”

“Usually you would wait until you’ve given Hiruzen your report before coming to find me,” Kagami said, leaning back against the back of the bench with his hands folded on top of his knees. At Sakumi’s askance look, Kagami laughed. “I haven’t been tracking you by chakra sense, Sakumo-kun, and I don’t have telepathy with the Jounin Commander. I know that because you’re still covered in travel dust, and Hiruzen doesn’t let anyone into his office without getting rid of it.”

“Oh,” Sakumo said. Then, before he could lose his courage, he forced himself to continue, “I fucked up.” Kagami didn’t respond immediately, so he flapped his hands vaguely in the air and elaborated, “During my last mission.” 

“Hiruzen doesn’t tell me what your missions are,” Kagami reminded. “And you didn’t tell me before you left.”

“It’s an S-rank,” Sakumo said. When Kagami continued staring at him, clearly waiting this time, Sakumo dragged both hands over his hair. “Alright.”

Though it was an S-rank, Sakumo hadn’t considered it a _difficult_ mission; it was only given that label because it had come straight from the Daimyo. Which really explained, in retrospect, why it was given to him in particular: the Daimyo favoured the members of what he had himself named the Konoha Five – the Sannin, Dan, and Sakumo himself – because they were of age to him.

The situation had been this: the Daimyo had nine sisters, and shared a mother with only one (said mother was a young concubine brought to the ageing Daimyo’s court as a last-ditch effort, and had immediately been promoted to wife when she bore the long-awaited son.) _That _sister, the only one younger than him, had recently taken to wife a member of their highest-ranking nobility. The man was beautiful, well-educated, could play both the koto and shamisen, and was even a master of both the tanka and chouka. Given his accomplishments, and how much his father had pushed for the match, it seemed like a very good one.

His sister, the Daimyo had explained, was at first very happy with her marriage. Then, her wife had started becoming… disobedient.

It wasn’t a matter of arguing about the timing of children – they could wait, because there were enough branch families within the Daimyo’s clan after the previous generation that this one could take the time to get to know each other – but _behaviour_. The Daimyo had stumbled over his words once or twice, but Sakumo eventually got the gist of it:

The sister’s wife was trying to act as if he was the husband and head of the house, and with every single day he behaved thus, the sister became angrier and angrier, and more and more fearful. Hence, Sakumo had been brought in.

His task was simply to ‘test’ whether or not the Daimyo’s brother-in-law could be disciplined into proper behaviour. In other words, Sakumo explained while staring fixedly at the pond, he was supposed to seduce the brother-in-law.

“What’s the issue there?” Kagami cocked his head. 

“I originally tried to go as a man,” Sakumo tried to explain, “but he’s _really_ uninterested in men.” Which wasn’t a surprise; there were some people who were, unlike most, unattracted to one sex or the other. “So, I used a variation of the Equaliser jutsu to turn myself into a woman.”

“A logical action,” Kagami nodded. “You used the Mission Variation, I suppose?”

“Yes,” Sakumo said quickly. “Anyway, so I turned myself into a woman, and I seduced him and…” he scratched the back of his neck. “We ended up having sex.” He paused. “I mean that he fucked me. When I had a woman’s body.”

Kagami blinked. “Well,” he said. “I suppose that the Daimyo sentenced that man to death the moment he heard?”

“Yes,” Sakumo fought down a wince. In Konoha, a wife fucking a woman, even one who was her husband, would be no issue if it happened behind closed doors. In the capital, however…

The previous Daimyo had expanded his clan and consolidated his power through judicious use of the Equaliser jutsu and his daughters. One of the first edicts he had set out after announcing the existence of the Equaliser was this: any man who became a wife to a woman would be punished if he ever fucked a woman. _Any _woman. The infidelity might be excused and even forgiven, but committing an act that seemed to imply that he wanted to up-end not only the Daimyo’s sister’s family, but the whole structure of the Daimyo’s clan itself? No, there was no way that he could be expected to live. Sakumo had left the capital before the date of the execution. By now, that man was _definitely_ dead.

A complete waste. This was why the civilians’ usage of the Equaliser jutsu was so problematic; it was a jutsu that was created to give people a choice as to what role they wanted to inhabit, but the Daimyo’s court had a tendency to force their children to take on roles that were convenient to _them_. Which then resulted in, well, _this_.

Here was the main reason why he hated Konoha being under the thumb of the Fire Daimyo: not only did Konoha shinobi _have _to take missions that the Daimyo dished out, they also could not protest about how they, and their jutsu, were used. If Konoha could restrict and even _police_ how the Equaliser jutsu was used, then… Never mind. He dismissed the thought.

No way such a thing could happen.

“I don’t see the issue here,” Kagami said.

“The issue is,” Sakumo started. His voice died. He swallowed hard. “I fucked up. With the jutsu.”

Kagami blinked. He folded his hands on top of his knees, and turned until he was facing Sakumo with one shoulder brushing the back of the bench. “Recite to me the variations of the Equaliser jutsu,” he barked. 

Sakumo fought down another wince; Kagami only used that tone when they had fucked up. It was a tone that Sakumo suspected he had learned from his own Sensei. From the man who had invented the jutsu that Sakumo had screwed up so badly.

“Now, Sakumo,” Kagami said, and crossed his arms.

“But that doesn’t make sense, Sensei,” Sakumo heard himself say. “You always had us state the _components_ of the Equaliser jutsu before listing the variations.”

For a long moment, Kagami looked like him like Sakumo was a twelve-year-old newly-minted genin who deserved to be thrown over his knee and spanked instead of a twenty-one-year-old who had been a jounin for years. Given that Kagami’s eldest was almost exactly Sakumo’s age and he still frequently flung Rishiri into the pond with the help of a well-aimed fuuton jutsu whenever his son annoyed him, he likely was stifling exactly that urge. 

Then Kagami sighed, arms dropping back to his side, and nodded. “Alright,” he said, sounding very weary. “Tell me about the components of the Equaliser, then.”

Sakumo considered trying his luck a little further, and then decided that he would rather not be smacked. Or drowned.

“There are three components to the jutsu,” he recited obediently. “The first component is for the purpose of chakra storage, which takes the form of a seal that must be charged. The second component is the physical change itself, which is a jutsu performed with a hand seals. The third component is the physical adjustment seal, which then connects the physical changes to the chakra storage seals, and uses the latter to ensure that the physical changes stay, _and_ to adjust the changes to the body whenever they need to be adjusted.” Such as after the child’s birth. 

“You know your theory,” Kagami said, thankfully distracting him from that vortex of thought before it could pull him in. 

“It was covered in the last year of the Academy, Sensei,” Sakumo pointed out. “And you revised it with us every year.”

“And you _still_ fucked it up,” Kagami arched a brow.

He had walked right into that one. Sakumo sighed. “There are two main categories of the Equaliser,” he said, staring up to the sky. “One for those born with a woman’s body, and one for those born with a man’s. Each category has three variations, named by Uchiha Tobirama as: Permanent, Mission, and Home.” 

“Usually people list them in a different sequence,” Kagami commented. “But go on with the one you chose, Sakumo.”

Dragging a hand through his hair, Sakumo drawled, “Thank you, Sensei,” which gained him a small snort. He hid a grin and answered, far more seriously, “Permanent means exactly that: a permanent version of either the Home or Mission variations. The Permanent Home version is what Konoha usually sells to the Daimyo,” _and which the Daimyo regularly misuses_, he added mentally, “and which necessitates that our shinobi head over to the capital on a regular basis so that they can continue ‘charging’ the jutsu that has already been applied.”

They could have, Sakumo knew, simply placed that seal that Uchiha Tobirama invented, that one that summoned Matatabi or Kurama’s chakra to them, and it would power the jutsu indefinitely. But, of course, the Daimyo didn’t know that chakra could be used that way, and no Hokage had been foolish enough to let slip that the distance of several days’ travel between Konoha and the capital was no match for one of their seals.

Konoha always found a way to keep track of what they sold. Sakumo just wished that there was a way for them to not have to use such subterfuge; given the power of Konoha shinobi, they shouldn’t even need the Daimyo at all.

(Sakumo knew that was possible because that was how the Permanent had been made in the first place. Thirty or so years ago, a man, a civilian swordsmith, managed to smuggle himself into Konoha despite the village being surrounded by a near-sentient forest that protected it zealously. He had begged an audience with Uchiha Tobirama, and whatever he had told him led him to create the Permanent variation and applied it to him along with the summoning seal for Matatabi’s chakra. 

When that man walked out of this very estate with his head held high, his female-seeming body had been changed to something that suited him much better. According to one – of many – rumours that surrounded Uchiha Tobirama, the swordsmith had settled in the Uchiha clan and taken on the surname. The twin kodachi wielded by Uchiha Mamiya and Koizumi, youngest twin daughters of Madara and Tobirama, had been gifted to them by that very swordsmith in thanks for their mother’s fulfilment of his dearest wish.) 

Fingers snapped in front of his face, and Kagami raised an eyebrow. Sakumo sighed. “The Mission variation,” he said, tipping his head back to stare at the sky, “changes the user to the opposite sex completely.” He paused. “There is a component in the jutsu that renders the temporary body infertile. The Permanent variation generally skips that component.”

Kagami’s lips twitched, but his voice was steady as he said, “You’re almost done, Sakumo.” 

Right. “The Home variation,” Sakumo said, turning to stare at the pond now, “changes only the organs that will allow for a woman to impregnate, or a man to be impregnated.”

“I thought I’ve cured you of your shyness with these things,” Kagami said, sounding amused.

“It’s not _shyness_,” Sakumo protested immediately. When Kagami arched a brow at him, clearly waiting, Sakumo fought down the flush that wanted to rise to his skin. “Uh… Someone with a woman’s body will grow a cock and a pair of testicles. The change will generally last for twelve hours; adding more chakra to the storage seal will lengthen the time, and take chakra out of it will end the jutsu immediately.” He took a breath. “Generally, the woman’s, uh, systems are left entirely unaffected by the jutsu.”

“Go on,” Kagami said, merciless.

“On someone with a man’s body,” Sakumo could feel his face growing hotter, _shit_, “the testicles will generally withdraw. A uterus, two ovaries, and the corresponding fallopian tubes will form in between the bladder and intestines, and stretch down to the cervix and the vagina, which opens at the place where the testicles used to be.” A deep, stabilising breath. “_Generally_, the jutsu also ensures that the organs are at peak fertility, and it generally lasts for eighteen months.”

Kagami was _laughing_ at him. Sakumo gritted his teeth so he didn’t start shouting, and forced himself to keep going. “Eighteen months because nine months are required for pregnancy, and nine more for the body to fully recover from pregnancy with the help of ovarian hormones. After which, the user could choose either to shift back to an entirely male body, or to feed more chakra into the storage seal.” He tried to not twitch, he really did, but he was aware that he failed miserably.

“The second option is usually not recommended because using the Home version for too long will generally end up making the man impotent.”

Which was why the previous Daimyo practically forcing his nobles _and_ his children to use the Permanent Home version was such a misuse of the jutsu: the human male body was not made to withstand long-term flooding of ovarian hormones. At some point, that male body _would_ become female-like, or feminine in some way, which was why Uchiha Tobirama had recommended going two or three years between each use of the jutsu so the body could regulate itself.

The Home variation had never been about changing men to women, or women to men; that was what the Permanent Mission variation was made to do. The purpose of the Home variation was in its name itself: it was to allow for people to create a home, a _family_, without being limited or forced into roles that did not fit them. 

Everyone in Konoha knew the story: the Equaliser jutsu was made so that Uchiha Tobirama could completely fulfil the role of the Uchiha Matriarch, down to the continuation of his husband’s line. He was not a man who would shirk his duties in any way, especially since if he had, Uchiha Izuna would have had to suffer to fulfil them in his stead. 

“You haven’t forgotten a single bit,” Kagami said, sounding very amused. “Or is it that you _did_ forget, and it all came rushing back after you fucked up?”

Sakumo opened his mouth. Closed it. “Second option,” he sighed. Kagami really knew him too well, never mind that it had been over five years since Sakumo was officially his student.

“So,” Kagami crossed his arms. “Are you willing to tell me _exactly_ how you fucked up, Sakumo?”

“I,” Sakumo licked his lips. “I, uh…. I told you that I had to—”

“Have sex with the Daimyo’s younger sister’s wife, yes,” Kagami finished for him. “As a woman.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Sakumo squeezed his eyes shut. “So, I used the Mission variation,” he continued. “And I, uh, I forgot the component that would ensure that I was infertile.”

“Yes,” Kagami said. “I guessed.”

“So, uh, yeah, I was… fertile when I…” He flapped his hands helplessly in the air. 

“Which means that you got knocked up,” Kagami said, ruthless and merciful at the same time.

“Yeah, that,” Sakumo winced, nodding. “I realised that something happened when I couldn’t change back to my male body after making the report to the Daimyo. And then I panicked, so, uh, I overloaded the storage seal—” 

“_Why_ did you do that?” Kagami sounded mystified for the first time in the whole conversation. “All you needed to do was to take your chakra out of the seal to turn back!”

“I did, but it didn’t _let_ me take the chakra out!” Sakumo yelped. “So, I tried to overload it beyond the seal’s limits to try to, uh, explode it—”

“For the sake of the gods in the mountains—” Kagami exclaimed.

“And then!” Sakumo yelled, talking over Kagami, “it _did_ explode, and I did get my male body back, but I, uh—” He waved his hands frantically around him. “I still have those parts and I think the jutsu shifted itself to the Home variation on its own?!”

Kagami dropped his face into his hands. “You activated the failsafe,” he mumbled.

“What,” Sakumo blinked.

“You activated—” Kagami took a deep breath. “Imagine this situation, would you? You turned yourself into a woman _without_ the infertility component, which means that, for all intents and purposes, you used the Permanent variation of the jutsu to become a woman.”

Sakumo opened his mouth to protest. Kagami slapped his hand over it immediately.

“Then you end up having sex with someone, which led to your new bits being occupied,” Kagami continued, dark eyes fixed upon Sakumo, “and then the seal is overloaded right after that. What do you think that situation resembles?”

Blinking rapidly, Sakumo stared. Kagami took a few moments to realise that he was still holding a hand over Sakumo’s mouth, and dropped it. “Uh….” Sakumo tried. “I… don’t know?” 

Sighing, Kagami dragged his other hand over his own face. “A bad case scenario,” Kagami said, “is someone’s chakra going haywire, which is why the jutsu shifted to the Home variation: to try to return the body’s original chakra coils to help stabilise the chakra. The _worst_-case scenario,” he breathed out through his nose, “is the reason why this failsafe exists in the first place.”

“Eh?” Sakumo said intelligently.

“Imagine that it wasn’t _you_ who had tried to draw out chakra from the seal and then overload it,” Kagami said, clearly trying his best to be patient. “Imagine that it had been someone else.”

“Oh,” Sakumo said. “The jutsu thought that…” he trailed off, unable to find the words.

Luckily, Kagami realised his issue immediately. “Yes,” he sighed. “It thought that you were _being_ _forced_ to return to your male body, instead of being stupid enough to be the one _forcing_ it.” 

Sakumo blinked. Then he blinked again. “It thought I was being _attacked_?” he yelped.

“Exactly,” Kagami said. “If you want to change back to a fully female body right now, you likely can.” When Sakumo gaped at him, he shrugged. “Or you can stay in the Home variation. The only thing you can’t do—”

“Is to return to my fully-male body,” he finished, and sighed. “Does this have _anything_ to do with the,” he waved his hand vaguely in the direction of his own body. He still wasn’t at the point of being able to acknowledge out loud that it was occupied by someone other than himself. 

“I’m not sure, but I can guess that it’s only part of it,” Kagami said. “Most of it is that you _overloaded_ the storage seal, Sakumo; the chakra hasn’t disappeared. It has to be used _somehow_.”

“Oh,” Sakumo said. “But why does a failsafe like this even—”

Kagami closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. “The first years of this jutsu had a few teething problems,” he said.

“You mean there would be people who would—” Sakumo’s mouth went dry.

“People used to be far crueller than they are now, Sakumo,” Kagami said, smile crooked and mirthless. When he noticed Sakumo’s surely-incredulous expression, he laughed. “What the Daimyo does, and carries on doing, to his nobles and his own children is the _least_ of what people would do without blinking an eye just a generation or two before.” 

When Sakumo tried to shake his head, unable to imagine it, Kagami smacked his jaw with two fingers. “Your generation has never seen war,” he snapped out sharply. “But I still remember the deprivations we had to go through from when I was three and four and five.” He let out a long, shuddering breath, and his tone was far calmer when he continued, “I remember even better how hard our Founders fought for this peace. Sensei, he…” he trailed off.

_He never rested_, Sakumo finished for him. _Not until he had no other choice_.

“Sorry,” he offered. “I think that people are stupid if they complain about there being no way to gain glory nowadays when compared to the past.”

“They are,” Kagami said, tipping his head back to stare at the sky. “My team were the last ones who gained our reputations through mass murder, or the prevention of mass murder.” He made the two sound as if they were the same. “And though we were all born before the village was built, Sensei and otou-sama still mourned having to send us out for such things.” 

It took a moment for Sakumo to remember who ‘otou-sama’ was— the Nidaime. Right. Sakumo tried so hard to not remember that Kagami was not only taught by Uchiha Tobirama but was also married to his and Madara’s eldest daughter that he had _genuinely_ forgotten about that little fact. He blinked, and dug his knuckles into his eyes.

“Is there any way I can fix this?” he mumbled.

“That depends on you,” Kagami said, voice very soft as well. “You _know_ how to fix this.”

He knew. Ever since he met Tsunade and Dan at the gates, he knew.

“The only ones I would trust enough to help me get rid of,” he waved a hand, “have just left the village.”

“Tsunade-kun and Dan?” Kagami questioned. When Sakumo nodded, staring at the pond again, he made an affirmative noise. “They are good choices, Sakumo.” He paused. “Even the fact that they will only be back in two weeks might be a boon to you.”

“_How?_”

“It gives you time to think,” Kagami told him.

“But I don’t _want_ time to think,” Sakumo blurted out, whining despite his best efforts. “If I could just— _fix_ this— ow!” He lurched forward from the smack Kagami landed on the back of his head.

“The fact that you don’t want to is all the more reason for you to do so,” Kagami pointed out, sounding eminently reasonable.

“Ugh,” Sakumo said eloquently. He picked up the bag of fish food again, and flung a handful down to the pond. “_Ugh_,” he repeated, with even more feeling. Kagami patted him on the shoulder. 

They sat in silence for long moments, Sakumo staring at the stupid faces of the koi as they gobbled up the food pellets while Kagami practically dug holes into his neck with his eyes. Sakumo gritted his teeth and let out a long breath.

“You know,” he said, “throughout the long history of the Hatake, there has never been anyone named ‘Kakashi’?” He paused. “We’ve had the whole list of farm tools, and I’m, like, the third Sakumo,” though only one within his direct ancestral line, “and there had been at least one Motsu as well… but there’ve never been a Kakashi.”

“Hn,” Kagami said. “Likely because it means ‘scarecrow’.”

“Like ‘crops’ is any better,” Sakumo scoffed. “Or,” he slid his eyes to his teacher, “‘mirror.’” 

Kagami rolled his eyes, but still didn’t fuuton jutsu him into the pond. Sakumo grinned.

“Think about it,” Kagami repeated.

“I am,” Sakumo said, keeping his voice soft to show his sincerity. Because he _was_: he might not want to, but no one became a shinobi without confronting difficult things. Especially not a Konoha shinobi.

“Alright,” Kagami said. Then, with another slap on the shoulder, he jumped off the bench and headed back to the house. He left the bag of fish food behind him.

Sakumo stayed there until the sun set, throwing pellets into the water one by one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Genma” is the Japanese name of the Alpha Corona Borealis, which is the brightest star of the Corona Borealis constellation. “Kanmuri” is the Japanese name of the Corona Borealis constellation itself. “Ashi” means “paw,” in the same way that “Kiba” means “fang” and “Tsume” means “claw.”
> 
> Yes, I _am_, in fact, obsessed with making up OC names that matches the canon clan characters’ names.
> 
> Anyway, the whole ‘Equaliser jutsu’ is my thought experiment about how to solve the gender issues in East Asia. Konoha’s way is the ideal – which is why it includes mentions of trans people so explicitly – while the capital is a distortion. The actual philosophy behind things, and how gender/role differentiation works at this point, will come next chapter. Because this is only half of the Epilogue. The second half will be posted next week. 
> 
> Meanwhile, a lot of the inspiration for this idea comes from drelfina’s [Clownfish AU](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1330769). Please go and read and comment on that while you wait for the official end of the fic. :>


	32. Epilogue II: the world treads relentlessly forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings: **More discussion of the philosophy and definitions of the genderfuckery in the first scene. Then non-explicit description of mpreg, stillbirth, and character death (someone you already suspect to be dead) in the second scene.

“Senpai told me that I could find you here.”

For reasons Orochimaru couldn’t fathom at this exact moment, Sakumo let out an ear-piercing _shriek, _and Orochimaru had to forgo protecting his ears with his hands because those were too busy forming the seals for a basic fuuton jutsu. Sakumo’s arms pinwheeled even harder when wind blasted him across the face, flattening him on his back, and Orochimaru rolled his eyes before slipping his hands back inside his sleeves. 

At least the noise had stopped.

“Thanks, Orochi,” Sakumo said.

Ignoring the clear sarcasm, Orochimaru dipped his head, “You’re welcome.” Then, just in case Sakumo hadn’t heard him the first time, “Senpai—”

“Told you that you could find me here,” Sakumo finished for him. His face pulled into an exaggerated grimace. “That traitor.”

“Kagami-senpai is not a traitor, whether to you or the village,” Orochimaru corrected mildly. “And you shouldn’t talk about your Sensei that way.”

When Sakumo gave him an incredulous look, Orochimaru sniffed. “Sarutobi-sensei has absolutely no dignity and deserves to be made fun of at every opportunity.”

“He’s the Jounin Commander,” Sakumo reminded unnecessarily.

“That fact doesn’t detract from what I said,” Orochimaru pointed out.

Sakumo threw his head back and laughed, long and loud. The sound echoed around them, nearly enough of a presence to rustle the leaves of trees some ten metres away. Orochimaru should hate the loudness of the sound, but he was transfixed by the sight of Sakumo’s tail of hair, the grey catching the oranges and reds and purples with the light of the rising sun. He couldn’t help but stare, too, at how the tan of his skin deepened even further with the slight flush dusting his cheeks.

“Come on,” Sakumo said, patting the carved stone beside him. “Sit with me.” 

Orochimaru hopped down delicately. This was – he checked – Uchiha Izuna’s head. Not his favourite among the Founders, but – he looked out towards the village – sitting here _did_ allow him to have the perfect vantage point to see the sun as it rose above the high canopies of the rumoured-carnivorous trees right outside Konoha’s gates.

Then again, sitting on top of _any_ of the Founders’ heads would let him do that.

“Do you favour Uchiha Izuna in particular?” he asked Sakumo.

“Nah,” Sakumo said. “I don’t really have a preference for a Founder.” He flashed Orochimaru a brief grin. “I suppose I don’t have to ask you for your favourite?”

“Of course not,” Orochimaru sniffed, eyes already shifting. He couldn’t see his Master’s carved head from the top of Uchiha Izuna’s without bending over far enough to risk falling, but he could form it in his mind: situated between the man who was known to be the greatest Uchiha Clan Head and the woman who was the last and likely greatest Senju Clan Head, Uchiha Tobirama’s place on the Founders’ Monument perfectly represented his role as the person without whom the village would not exist. 

And speaking of his Master… “Senpai told me to find you,” he said, staring straight ahead, “because you have an issue with the Equaliser.”

“Hey, that’s—” Sakumo let out a heavy huff of breath between his teeth. “Why would he tell _you_?” 

Orochimaru didn’t bother dignifying that with a verbal response, only tilting his head slightly to the side. Fortunately, Sakumo wasn’t entirely without braincells – he just seemed to prefer to not use them when speaking – because he ducked his head immediately and let out a nervous laugh. 

“Right,” he said. Orochimaru barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

Because the entire village knew that, as Tobirama’s first, last, and _only_ apprentice, Orochimaru was the official heir of the research surrounding his Master’s greatest works – the Equaliser and regeneration jutsus. 

(His Master would protest that they were all the way down the list as the seventh and eighth greatest of his creations, but Orochimaru had _met_ the man’s six children with Uchiha Madara. They might all be accomplished and clever shinobi, especially the eldest and current Clan Head, but none of them had managed to change the world as thoroughly as the Equaliser, or even the regeneration jutsu, had alone by themselves.

Orochimaru would only admit his Master’s perspective to be clouded by one thing, and that was his pride and love for his children.)

“So?” he prompted Sakumo. “What is the problem you have with it?”

“It’s not something you can help with,” Sakumo said slowly.

“I have been working on the Equaliser since I was twelve,” Orochimaru scoffed. “I don’t think there is any part of it that is still alien to me.”

(He started working on the regeneration seal first; even before he became a genin. He – and Jiraiya and Tsunade – had already passed the Academy’s exams the previous year, but the law forbade anyone younger than twelve to gain the genin rank – and thus be allowed to take missions – unless the Hokage gave a special dispensation. 

Uchiha Madara had vehemently refused to allow it. He had never allowed _anyone_ younger than twelve to take missions, he had said, not even his own children, and he wasn’t about to start. So, Orochimaru had found himself with a lot of time on his hands, especially since Sarutobi-sensei never quite knew what to do with him. Or any of them, for the matter.

Then, at seven, his parents died. Konoha shinobi died less frequently during missions than the shinobi of other villages, but there were still casualties. His parents had been out of the seal’s range when they had been injured, and had died of their wounds before they managed to make their way back. He had wanted, at the time, to find a way for the seal to recreate bodies entirely from dead cells, and he had even pulled out research about how to use seals to recall souls. He had wanted, more than anything, to bring his parents back.

Tobirama had found him then, sidestepping all of the traps Orochimaru had laid on the Yashagoro estate to keep everyone out with an ease that belied the blindfold he wore over his eyes. He had prodded and cajoled and finally demanded to know what Orochimaru was trying to do to _his_ invention, and eventually Orochimaru had broken down and shrieked and thrown all of the jutsus he had known at one of Konoha’s greatest. Tobirama had dodged all of them easily, crossed the room and picked up Orochimaru – bedraggled and likely unwashed with a full head of tangled hair – and held him tight as he cried.

When Orochimaru reached twelve years old, he became the only genin who had a jounin’s knowledge of jutsu and seal theories, had several new jutsus and seals he had invented himself under his belt, and an apprenticeship to Uchiha Tobirama himself.

Not to say that his teammates had lagged behind – they _were_ the Sannin, after all. Jiraiya had managed to snag himself an apprenticeship under Uchiha Izuna, Konoha’s Shodaime Kemuri, and, with it, a contract with a geisha teahouse that brought him to the capital a month every year to learn under them. Tsunade had eschewed learning under any of the Founders – there was no point, she had claimed, because she was related to all of them – and nipped at the heels of Yamanaka Biwako, the Sandaime’s Wife, instead, learning how to take apart and put together a badly-regenerated body by the time she was twelve.

They were the most accomplished genin in the history of the village, so much so that, the day after they passed their chuunin exams at thirteen, they were nominated for jounin. The Hokage approved the rank but refused to let them take missions outside of the village without supervision from those older and more senior than they were. Then he changed the graduation system the year after that, and his Wife revamped the entire Academy syllabus to accommodate not only those who were too slow for the standard, but also those who were far, far too _fast_.

Konoha would have other geniuses, but they would never have other Sannin.)

“It’s not a problem with the seal,” Sakumo said. When Orochimaru opened his mouth, Sakumo shook his head and continued, “Or the seals. Or any part of the jutsu in particular. Or the Equaliser as a whole.” 

Orochimaru clicked his mouth shut. “Alright,” he nodded slowly. “Then what is the problem?”

“Are you going to leave me alone if I say that I don’t want to tell you?” 

“No,” Orochimaru said, and pointedly stretched out his legs so he was more comfortable in his seat. 

Closing his eyes, Sakumo sighed. He folded his hands behind his head and leaned his back fully against the cliff. “I fucked up,” he said, voice very flat, “and I’m going to have a mission baby in nine months, give or take a few days.”

Orochimaru blinked. “_How_?”

“Long story short,” Sakumo said in that same dead voice, “I forgot the infertility component in the Mission variation, had the sex my mission demanded of me to have, and then panicked when I tried to turn back and activated the failsafe.”

Another blink. Orochimaru opened his mouth. and then closed it, because he didn’t think ‘_that’s a really fucking stupid thing you did_’ would exactly be helpful right now. Tsunade might not think that he had enough empathy or compassion to fill a teaspoon, but he did _have_ some.

Or maybe it was because Sakumo looked pathetic right now, and it was very strange to see him like that.

“So,” Orochimaru said softly, “are you having an issue with getting rid of it?”

“No,” Sakumo said. “Or, well, I don’t know; I haven’t tried.” A corner of his lips quirked up into a mirthless smile. “I’m waiting for Dan to come back, because he’s the only one I would trust with this.”

“A wise decision,” Orochimaru nodded. Dan _was_ one of their best healers, after all; he might even exceed Tsunade in terms of coming up with innovative techniques now that she was focused more on revamping the hospital’s administration and the campaigning for basic medical training to be taught in the Academy. “So…”

“I don’t know whether I want to—” Sakumo shrugged, clearly uncomfortable with continuing.

“Alright,” Orochimaru nodded. “So… keep it.” It wouldn’t be the first time a shinobi kept a mission baby. The Land of Sound even had an entire clan, the Fuuma, whose members had no fathers, only mothers, because the clan specialised in the use of chakra threads and archery, techniques that could be learned by anyone with rudimentary chakra control skills, and leadership was passed on to the best of the clan instead of through blood inheritance.

“It’s not that easy,” Sakumo sighed.

“Why?”

“Do you actually want to know?” Sakumo slitted an eye open, dark iris fixed upon Orochimaru’s. “Or is this still a matter of scientific curiosity to you?”

“I don’t see the difference,” Orochimaru told him honestly. “But I want you to tell me so I can find a solution, since this issue clearly upsets you.”

“And you’re trying to make me less upset?” Sakumo asked. For some reason, that half-smile lingering in his mouth looked a great deal less insincere now. 

Orochimaru nodded. “Yes,” he said. “If there’s anything I can do…”

“That’s the thing,” Sakumo cut him off, eyes now open and staring at the sky. “I don’t know how you can help. Or if anyone can help.” He lifted his shoulders, and then dropped them. “Or if it’s even a problem at all.”

“If you’d being so obtuse, then…” Orochimaru trailed off, pointedly raising a brow.

Throwing his head back, Sakumo laughed. “Alright,” he said. Then he surged forward, drawing one knee up to his chest and dropping his chin on top of it. “I want to keep the baby,” he said, voice soft as if divulging a great secret. “I’ve even given him a name in my head.”

“What is it?” Orochimaru prompted, because he thought he should.

“Kakashi,” Sakumo said, and gave him that odd half-grin again. “_Hatake_ Kakashi.” He paused. “Unless it turns out to be a girl, then I’ll have to look for another name.”

Orochimaru blinked. “If you don’t want to acknowledge the other,” he waved a hand, looking for the word, “genetic contributor, then have him recorded just under your name and your clan.” He cocked his head to the side. “It’s a well-established practice, so I don’t see—”

“That’s not it,” Sakumo interrupted. “If I do that, it’d make things worse.” When Orochimaru stared at him, uncomprehending, Sakumo sighed. “Just _think_, Orochi: what kind of people come back with mission babies?”

_Shinobi_ was Orochimaru’s immediate answer, but that was clearly not what Sakumo was thinking: he was practically bragging about placing his child as part of his very shinobi clan, and giving him a very shinobi name. No, it had to be… something else. Something related to the kind of people returned from missions pregnant, and related somehow to the way he had said his child’s surname. His _own_ surname.

_Oh_.

“You don’t want to be the child’s mother,” he guessed, eyes fixed on Sakumo. “You want to be his,” he paused, “their father.”

Sakumo spread out his hands. “Bingo.”

“Then _be_ their father,” Orochimaru said. “I don’t see the issue.”

“What?” Sakumo spluttered. “How— how do you not see the issue?”

This _again_. Orochimaru fought the urge to roll his eyes. “The purpose of an Equaliser is to give people a choice,” he explained patiently. “Not only to choose which role they wanted to play – though that was what it was made for – but also when to have children, and who to have them with.” He waited for Sakumo to nod. “It also helps with deciding who to _carry_ the child.”

“You lost me,” Sakumo said, blinking rapidly.

“Honestly,” Orochimaru sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “As much as I understand the necessity of the roles of husbands and wives, and fathers and mothers, I don’t understand why no one has yet made full use of the Equaliser jutsu.” When Sakumo continued to stare at him, blinking owlishly, Orochimaru rolled his eyes.

“Taking turns,” he explained shortly. “I don’t understand why couples don’t choose to _alternate_ who carries the child.”

“Won’t the children be confused about who is their mother and who is their father, then?” Sakumo asked. “Won’t the married couple be confused themselves about who is the husband, and who is the wife?” 

“So,” Orochimaru said dryly, “I supposed Tsunade and Dan are entirely confused about who holds the role of the husband, and who the wife, since they haven’t had children yet, and thus could not define their roles based on who has gotten impregnated by whom?”

“Uh—”

“And I suppose that all _your_ mother did for you and your father was to give birth to you?” he continued, arching an eyebrow.

“Wait—”

“Perhaps you also think that Kagami-senpai’s retirement to be unnecessary, since he did so to support his husband’s role as Clan Head?” He raised the other eyebrow now. “Since he has already fulfilled his role as wife by giving his husband children, he shouldn’t have needed to do anything at all?” 

Sakumo opened his mouth. Then, fortunately for him, he immediately shut it, pinching the bridge of his nose and letting out a long sigh. “Okay,” he said finally. “When you put it like that, it sounds stupid.”

“I’m glad you realised that,” Orochimaru said.

“But,” Sakumo cracked open one eye, staring at him again, “don’t you think you’re being too radical with the idea that people take turns?”

“Here is another even more radical idea,” Orochimaru said, flinging a hand out of his sleeve. “A couple, having already chosen their positions within their marriage, decide to have the husband carry the children instead of the wife, because the wife’s health would be threatened by pregnancy.

_Oy_, Tsunade’s voice rang in his head. _Don’t you dare._

_Have you mistaken Orochi to be me, Tsuna? _Jiraiya laughed, sharp and cackling even as a mental voice. He had clearly popped in because he had heard Tsunade. _I’m the one who’s stupid enough to risk your fist, not him._

_Thank you for your terrible attempt to defend me, Jiraiya,_ Orochimaru shot back at the both of them. _Now be quiet, I’m having a conversation_.

_Oh yes, _Tsunade laughed. _You don’t want to be disturbed when talking to _Sakumo_._

_Do you actually want him to find out that I can talk to you two like this?_ Orochimaru asked, keeping his mental voice mild. _Because he’s one of the few people who _will_ put the clues together to figure it out, and I’d rather not get into trouble with Sandaime-sama or Sarutobi-sensei about this, much less drag Nidaime-sama out of retirement to properly punish all three of us._  
_  
And,_ Jiraiya drawled, _that’s the only reason why you want the two of us to fuck off. Noted, Orochi._

Tsunade, for her part, simply cackled again. _Just don’t let out anything about my and Dan’s plans, Orochi_, she said. _And you’ll have to marry Sakumo first before telling him anything about this, remember?_

_Quiet, _Orochimaru hissed at them both, and then firmly shut off his side of the connection when the two absolutely annoying bastards simply laughed at him again.

“Uh,” Sakumo said. When Orochimaru lifted a brow at him again, he held up his hands in the universal gesture of surrender. “I give up, I can’t figure out the answer.”

“Shishou created the Equaliser because he needed and wanted to give Nidaime-sama children,” Orochimaru said, staring out at the village. The sun had risen fully by now, and enough people were awake for there to be frequent flashes of colour crossing the rooftops. “Because the Uchiha main line had to continue, and if Shishou could not give Nidaime-sama children and Nidaime-sama refused to take a woman for his wife to continue his line, then the only one who could do so would be Izuna-sama.”

“Which means that Izuna-sama could not marry Touka-sama like he wished, because Touka-sama was the Senju Clan Head, and thus could not marry out,” Sakumo finished, impatience seeping into his tone. “I know my history, Orochimaru.”

“Is there any definition,” Orochimaru slid a glance over, “of the roles of a husband and a wife in any of that history?”

Sakumo frowned. “Nidaime-sama convinced the Daimyo to change the law to allow men to become wives and women to become husbands,” he said slowly, “because now men could give birth and women could impregnate.” Eyes falling shut, his head smacked against the stone behind him. “Doesn’t that define wives as those who give birth, and husbands as those who don’t?”

“In the eyes of the law, perhaps,” Orochimaru conceded. “But is the law all that determines choice?”

“No,” Sakumo admitted. “But—” He stopped abruptly. Orochimaru waited, and eventually Sakumo let out another one of those heavy sighs. “Maybe it’s possible for you accept that there is really not that much difference between husbands and wives, or fathers and mothers, but I—”

“That’s not right,” Orochimaru cut him off.

“You think there is a difference?” Sakumo arched a brow.

“I’m trying to tell you that of course there is a difference,” Orochimaru said, dragging a hand through his hair because Sakumo was being uncommonly _stupid_ about this. “But the difference comes down to having a _choice_, not biology. If the Equaliser could make men mothers and women fathers, then why can’t you give birth to a child and still be his father?”

“Because of the part where I _gave birth_?” Sakumo threw back, dark eyes a little wild. “If that’s not a difference—”

“That’s why I brought up Kagami-senpai and even your own mother!” Orochimaru flung up his hands, feeling more than a little frustrated. “Their roles as wives and mothers are not limited to the having of children, but the duties they chose to take on in childrearing—”

“Which isn’t even relevant!” Sakumo was _shouting_ now. “Because I have to do _both_!” He lurched forward. “You’re not _getting_ it, Orochimaru! I _can’t_ be a father, and only a father, because I have to be both since Kakashi will have no other parent!”

“Well—” Orochimaru couldn’t get a better chance than this. 

“Listen, I _get_ what you’re saying,” Sakumo said, practically panting out the words. “But those roles are defined by _contrast_; if I’m alone, and I perform _both_ duties, including those of giving birth, then how _can_ I be a father? How can I,” the hand he dragged over his hair shook, “be a husband _without _a_ wife_?” 

There were several ways Orochimaru could use to shut him up, and also to make his offer. He chose the most expedient one:

Cupping Sakumi’s face with both hands, he crashed their mouths together.

Sakumo made a noise, practically a scream, that sounded as if it was wrenched from the depths of his chest. Then one of his hands sank into Orochimaru’s hair, dragging him forward, while the other clutched his shoulder and tried to shove him down. Caught in between both forces, Orochimaru threw one of his legs over Sakumo’s waist, dragged him closer, and fell back until he felt stone beneath his own body.

“What—” Sakumo panted out, lips red and swollen and cheeks flushed red.

“You need a wife and a mother for your child,” Orochimaru said, staring straight into those wolf-dark eyes. “I offer myself.”

In response, Sakumo gaped.

“There is another solution, of course,” Orochimaru said, thumbs following the curve of Sakumo’s cheekbones. “You can simply find other mother figures for your son – Dan and Kagami-senpai would happily volunteer – and concretise your role as father that way. But—” His fingertips ghosted over Sakumo’s hairline. “My offer stands.”

“You would—” Sakumo sputtered out. “Tell me that this isn’t entirely because of Kakashi, Orochimaru.”

“Of course not,” Orochimaru said, pleased that Sakumo could figure _that_ out despite his current emotional turmoil. “Have you heard the rumours about Sandaime-sama’s impending retirement?”

“There are rumours?” Sakumo blinked.

“Mmhmm,” Orochimaru nodded. “And Sandaime-sama has his eye set on one of the Konoha Five as his successor.”

“But,” Sakumo protested immediately like Orochimaru knew he would, “Jiraiya will never agree to stay in the village permanently, Tsunade will definitely refuse leaving the hospital, and Dan is a wife and thus is already disqualified…” He trailed off, eyes widening. “_Me?_”

“You,” Orochimaru nodded. “You and your opinions about how much you despise the Daimyo having power over Konoha.” He grinned, flashing a fang. “The thoughts you have, which you have made widely-known, about how much you want Konoha to have the power to openly police the Equaliser instead of resorting to subterfuge.”

Sakumo continued to gape.

“Not to mention,” Orochimaru drawled, “your desire for Konoha to have the power to refuse the missions that the Daimyo personally hands out.” He patted Sakumo’s cheek lightly. “I’m not sure if you’ve realised, Sakumo, but those are the thoughts of a visionary.”

“And you—”

“My Master was Uchiha Tobirama,” Orochimaru smiled, sharp and full of teeth. “I want no position other than the one he once held: the Hokage’s Wife.”

Staring at him, Sakumo finally sat back. “And if I have you,” he said slowly, “I will have Jiraiya as my Kemuri—”

“An unconventional one who never stays in the village, but a splendid spymaster nonetheless,” Orochimaru nodded.

“Dan in the hospital,” Sakumo murmured, mind clearly shifting, “and perhaps Tsunade as Jounin Commander—”

“She’ll never agree,” Orochimaru refuted. “Tsunade and Dan will both be in the hospital. One of them will head the Research Division eventually, but you will never pry either of them out of the building.” He folded his hands into his sleeves. “A Hyuuga, or an Aburame.”

“The Aburame won’t ever come out of their seclusion to take such a public post,” Sakumo shook his head, fingers already tapping on his knee. “The only Hyuuga who might have the potential would be one of the twins, and they are still too young. Would likely still be too young.” They were, Orochimaru recalled, newly-minted genin this year. 

“Rishiri,” Orochimaru suggested, bringing up Kagami’s eldest son. When Sakumo started shaking his head, he spread his hands out, “Sandaime-sama’s Inner Council did not include a single Uchiha.”

“It’s not that,” Sakumo said. “I know Rishiri; he won’t agree because he’d be flooded with too much work as the Uchiha Clan Head once he takes over from Hakuun-sama.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “If it is to be an Uchiha, then it has to be someone out of the direct line of inheritance.” 

“Hakuun-sama has five younger siblings,” Orochimaru reminded, “and three of them have children. All of them are possible candidates.” When Sakumo frowned, clearly considering his options, Orochimaru held up a hand. “But aren’t you rushing forward a little quickly, Sakumo?”

Sakumo stared at him for long moments. Then he threw his head back and _laughed_, loud and raucous and sincere like Orochimaru hadn’t heard from him since his return from that mission in the capital that had unsettled him and landed him with a child he wasn’t sure what to do with.

Then Orochimaru had to stop thinking, blinking instead because Sakumo had hold of his hand. His tanned, callused thumb ran over Orochimaru’s paper-white knuckles before he ducked his head down and brushed his lips over the back. 

They were dry and a little chapped, and those dark eyes were nearly liquid with a heat that made Orochimaru swallow hard despite his best efforts. He bit hard on the inside of his own cheek.

“I can get Sarutobi-sensei to send the two of us on a long-haul mission for at least ten months,” he said softly. “Only Tsunade and Dan will know our location, and they will come to check up on you. I’ll come up with another variation of the Equaliser so that I can feed Kakashi once he’s born. When we come back to Konoha, no one will be any wiser.”

“Say that again,” Sakumo demanded. When Orochimaru cocked his head, he smiled. “The baby’s name, I mean.”

“Kakashi,” Orochimaru whispered.

“Mm,” Sakumo hummed, pale lashes fluttering like he was absorbing the sound of the child’s name on Orochimaru’s tongue. “Say, Orochimaru—”

“Yeah?”

“Do you prefer ‘okaa-san’ or ‘kaa-chan’?” He opened his eyes again, and his smile was crooked and so, so bright. “Or would you rather the formal ‘hahaue’?”

In response, Orochimaru dragged him forward, and kissed him again.

“Your favourite student lied to me two days ago.”

“That’s not possible,” Kagami refuted without taking his eyes off the doku zeri that he was pruning. “Dai has never lied within the village in his life, and I don’t think he’d start now.”

There was the briefest pause before a familiar laugh rang out in Kagami’s garden. “I thought your favourite is Hatake.”

“I rotate,” Kagami said, succinct. “Right now, Sakumo is at the very bottom of the list because of the mess he’s made by panicking and not thinking things through properly. Which you already know.” At the quiet hum of assent, Kagami snipped off another branch and carefully dropped it into the canvas bag lying by his feet. “But you didn’t come all the way here to talk about my favouritism, Saru.”

Konoha’s Jounin Commander sighed. When Kagami slanted his gaze over to look, Hiruzen was squatting like a hooligan on the edge of his engawa, the polearm that was Enma shrunk to the size of a brush and being twirled between his twitchy fingertips. Kagami looked away and snipped off another branch.

This time, yellow liquid seeped out immediately, gleaming like oil under the bright morning sunlight. Kagami’s index finger shifted into position for a suiton, and yanked out the poisonous sap and leading it into one of the uncapped glass bottles lying in wait.

“Torifu is talking about retiring again,” Hiruzen said. When Kagami didn’t respond immediately, he sighed again. “Look, he actually has a reason this time.” 

“Oh?”

“The village will be fifty soon,” Hiruzen said, dipping his voice lower as if to imitate his ex-teammate’s rumbling baritone. “We should pass it onto a generation that has never seen war before it reaches that age.”

Kagami snorted. “That’s the poorest excuse he’s made so far,” he said.

“It’s not as if he actually wanted the position,” Hiruzen pointed out, like Kagami knew he would.

“Be that as it may,” Kagami replied calmly, “he has been Sandaime for less than three years. Even if he’s only serving as a seat-warmer, he needs to stay there longer before tossing the position off to someone else. For the stability of Konoha, if nothing else.”

Not to mention that the reputations of Torifu and his Inner Council were all well-established. Unlike anyone of the later generation that his old friend would want to pass the Hokage hat off to.

“At least you admit that he’s only here as a placeholder,” Hiruzen muttered. “That we’re _all_ here as placeholders.”

Ah, there it was. Kagami hid a smile behind the clip of his shears on a couple of straggly-looking branches that gave no sap. “Danzou?” he guessed. The Sandaime Kemuri was the only one out of the entire Inner Council who might protest if the whole lot of them were forced into a sudden retirement tomorrow.

“Danzou,” Hiruzen dragged the name out into a whine. “The snits he throws whenever Torifu mentions retiring need its own seismic measurement.”

This time, Kagami didn’t bother stifling his snort. “Might I remind you that you married him?” he asked, flashing a raised brow at his friend.

“And he married me because it’s the best way to confirm his position as Kemuri,” Hiruzen drawled.

“That’s not what your three children imply,” Kagami pointed out, lips twitching despite himself. “Especially the fact that they were all born _before_ resigning as Nidaime was even a passing thought in Madara-sama’s head, much less choosing Torifu and Danzou as his and Mito-sama’s successors.”

Hiruzen remained conspicuously silent. Kagami threw his head back and laughed.

“Come off it,” he said. “You didn’t come here to complain about your wife, either.”

“Do you ever get tired of being right?” Hiruzen asked, voice light. 

“I need to keep sharpening my wits so I don’t bore my husband,” Kagami shot back, mirroring his friend’s tone exactly. “And so I won’t be fooled by my students or my kids.” When Hiruzen barked another laugh and still looked no closer to spilling the beans, Kagami sighed.

“You’d have invited me out for dinner or lunch if you wanted to complain,” he said, tucking another bundle of leaves into the canvas bag. “Or bought me some senbei, at least.”

“Jiraiya’s latest report states that there’s a good chance that Taki has found a bijuu,” Hiruzen said abruptly.

Kagami went very still. “Have they sighted one?” he demanded. “Or are they making plans to or are in the middle of befriending one?” He shot Hiruzen a narrow-eyed stare. “Or are they stupid enough to try to capture one?” 

“If Jiraiya had the answers to those questions,” Hiruzen said, “I wouldn’t be here.”

Brushing off some dirt from his hands, Kagami turned around. “So,” he said, “are you asking me as the user of the Kotoamatsukami or as the Uchiha clan matriarch?” Did he need to make sure no Uchiha would be kidnapped for their Sharingan to be used to subdue a bijuu? It would be troublesome if he needed to do so, but less than if Hiruzen was calling upon him as the only Mangekyou user still in active service.

(Here was the other reason why Torifu couldn’t yet retire: none of his potential successors had someone like Kagami amongst their retinue; none of them had the most powerful person of their generation as a close enough friend to never worry about their personal loyalty, much less the loyalty of their village, and had earned that person’s respect enough to gain the ability to point them and know that something – or _someone_ – would be destroyed without a trace.

Or, well, one person _did _have his Kagami-equivalent, but he hadn’t yet realised his potential.

Sakumo had always blinded himself to how deadly Dan could be.

Tsunade, of course, knew perfectly well. But Tsunade had never been in the running for Hokage anyway.)

Koharu and Homura wouldn’t be pleased to be pulled from their extended second honeymoon slash early retirement to be serve as his backup, Kagami thought. Hopefully he could tempt them with talk of doing some sightseeing around Taki’s underground caves. 

“I’m asking you,” Hiruzen said, interrupting his thoughts, “as Madara-sama and Tobirama-sensei’s favourite in-law.”

“Oh,” Kagami barely managed to bite back the sigh of relief. “You want me to talk to Matatabi about this.”

Three years ago, no one would need to go to such an extent to ask Matatabi anything; waiting for a time when she was walking around and being polite was all that was necessary. But well, Matatabi had been extremely capricious ever since Madara’s sudden resignation. She still did her duty in providing chakra for those who were injured, of course, and even allowed the modified version of the seal to be placed on her directly, but when it came to conversations and giving answers to questions…

Well, she was more likely to walk away or fall asleep on you than pay any attention.

“Have you asked Kurama?” 

“I asked Mito-sama,” Hiruzen said. When Kagami arched an eyebrow, he kept his eyes fixed on the golden, toothpick-sized rod in his hand and refused to look at him.

Meaning that he had asked, and wasn’t given any kind of answer. Kagami frowned, trying to think of a reason. Kurama might not be as amenable and patient as Matatabi had once been, but he saw Konoha as part of his territory and did not take any threats to it lightly.

Unless whatever that was happening in Taki _wasn’t_ a threat to Konoha? But if they had a bijuu…

Well, the last time anyone aside from Konoha and Uzushio had a bijuu was Yamagakure, and everyone knew what happened _there_.

“You know,” Hiruzen said. At the sound of _that_ particular tone, Kagami snapped his head up, pushing the thoughts away to focus on his old friend. “We wouldn’t have any of these problems if you had taken Hokage.” He paused. “Or, well, if your husband had.”

Kagami rolled his eyes. “A potential Hokage candidate cannot be related to the past three Hokages before them,” he recited in a dull monotone, eyes fixed on the sky. “Have you forgotten that my husband is Madara-sama’s daughter?”

“Nope,” Hiruzen said. “But neither have I forgotten that that law is new.”

“_That law_,” Kagami repeated pointedly, “was made specifically so no one can put pressure on or assume that Hak-kun or any of her siblings would become Hokage after Madara-sama.” He waved the shears in Hiruzen’s direction. “Or do you want us to end up like Suna?”

“Having the Uchiha main line as Hokage doesn’t seem like a bad idea,” Hiruzen said, flailing his golden polearm – now back to the size of a brush – in the air.

Kagami scoffed. “Don’t tell me you actually believe that kind of bullshit,” he said. 

“I haven’t seen any evidence to the contrary,” Hiruzen said. “Your son—”

“_My son_,” Kagami stressed, “already finds it difficult enough preparing to take on the Clan Head position that he runs around like a headless chicken on most days.” He dropped the shears to cross his arms. “Besides, you know better than to suggest hereditary leadership; have you forgotten Senju history?”

“Well—” Hiruzen started.

“Or Hyuuga Hiroaki?” 

Hiruzen held up both hands. “I should’ve known better than to argue with you,” he said, voice wry. “Especially after Rishiri-kun graduated from the Academy.”

“Teenagers _are _full of stupid arguments,” Kagami said agreeably. “But I learned to put those down when I was on the same team with you and Danzou.” He picked up his shears again and pointedly turned away.

“What are you going to do with so much poison from the doku zeri?” Hiruzen asked, the question finally seeming to burst out of him.

Kagami threw his head back and laughed. “Mamiya-chan is experimenting with it,” he said. “Your jounin might get another batch of extremely deadly poisoned darts soon.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Hiruzen sad, swinging to stand. The golden rod shifted to the size of a proper polearm once he was on his feet, and he slammed the tip down into the soil while keeping his gaze on Kagami. “Can you please tell your littlest sister-in-law to stop corresponding with Suna’s Sasori? The Kazekage keeps sending Torifu complaints about how Sasori makes a lot of noise about wanting to defect to Konoha just to study under her.”

“It’s neither my nor Mamiya-chan’s fault if Suna can’t keep their shinobi’s loyalty,” Kagami retorted idly. “Also, Mamiya-chan isn’t the youngest; Koizumi-chan is younger by seven minutes.” A fact that Mamiya would never allow her sister to forget. And speaking of… “Give me a list of jounin who would be willing to try out new weapons, won’t you?”

“For Koizumi-chan’s blacksmithing adventures?” Hiruzen asked, voice dry.

“Precisely,” Kagami shot a smirk over his shoulder. When Hiruzen snorted, shaking his head, Kagami laughed. “Go away already. I’ll send you whatever news I have once I manage to talk to Matatabi.” He paused. “It might take until tomorrow.”

“No rush, no rush,” Hiruzen drawled. “It’s only a matter of some national emergency.”

“Tell Jiraiya-kun to focus on writing his porn while waiting,” Kagami shot back immediately. “Maybe come up with a more substantial plot meanwhile. The last one had so many holes that it wouldn’t even be fit for a fishing net.” 

“I,” Hiruzen said to the sky, “am not going to ask how you even know enough of his books to critique them.” Then, before Kagami could reply to scar him, Hiruzen grabbed his polearm by both ends and used it to flip himself onto the rooftop. When Kagami waved, he received a single raised finger in response. 

He returned to pruning the doku zeri, and had managed three bottles full of poisonous sap before he picked up the canvas bag and stood. Setting fire to the branches and leaves inside without touching the bag itself was old hand by now, and he was spreading ash all over the garden bed when another set of footsteps approached.

“Someone told me that the Jounin Commander came over to visit,” Kabato said.

“Saru is a rude bastard who doesn’t pay proper respects,” Kagami said, shaking out the last of the ash from the bag. Then, lowering it, he met Kabato’s eyes and grinned. “You’d have to forgive him for my sake.”

There was some white at the man’s temples and even more creases at the corners of his eyes, but his lopsided grin was the same as when Kagami had been nothing more than a snot-nosed washerwoman’s son instead of the Uchiha Clan Matriarch, and Kabato was a loudmouthed blacksmith apprentice instead of Tsurugi’s handpicked successor to the position of civilian head after the old man had followed his wife into death.

“You forget that I know for a fact that you never bothered telling any of them about the general etiquette when visiting the compound,” Kabato said. His lips twitched slightly. “Well, not that there is anything left of the general etiquette anyway.”

“It would be rather inconvenient,” Kagami said agreeably, “if everyone has to report to you before coming to visit someone in the Uchiha compound.” Especially since he was rather sure that there was no one in Konoha who didn’t have at least _one_ Uchiha friend that they liked to drop in on a regular basis. 

Tossing the canvas bag and garden shears over to the corner where he kept his usual tools, he picked up the bottles of poison. “Did you come here for gossip, Kabato-nii?”

“Am I not allowed to visit my esteemed Lady Uchiha?” Kabato drawled, sweeping a deep bow. When Kagami scoffed, punching him on the shoulder, Kabato grinned at him for a long moment.

Then the expression faded, and he sighed. “I’m not here for you,” he said. “But for…” he jerked his head to the side.

Oh. Kagami followed his gaze as well. “He’d say that he’s fine,” he said softly.

“But _is_ he?” 

“I don’t know,” Kagami said, staring at the closed door leading to the east wing of his own house. “Mamiya and Koizumi have moved back into the estate—”

“He’s always favoured the girls,” Kabato murmured, lips twitching slightly to the side.

“But there’s only so much they can hover around him, especially when he keeps telling them to focus on their projects instead.” Which was, of course, good for the village: the past three years had seen his sisters-in-law filling up Konoha’s stocks of designer poisons and weapons to the extent that neither would run out for the next two decades. “And he spends a lot of time with Matatabi.”

“Which might be a good or a bad thing,” Kabato said.

“Mm,” Kagami nodded. He slipped his hands into his sleeves. “I can’t tell you if he’s alright, Kabato; only he can.”

“But you know well enough that he won’t say a word even if he’s wasting away,” Kabato protested, dragging a hand through his hair. “And I thought you’d know something, because—”

“Because I have the Mangekyou?” Kagami finished for him. “Or that Hak-kun is the foremost expert on it?” 

His husband’s lifelong project was to try to figure out how to evolve the Sharingan into the Mangekyou without needing the user to be severely traumatised first. Even though she had failed to find a way for decades, she would not give up, and Kagami suspected that she would only give up when death made her do so.

(Hakuun’s obsession was entirely Kagami’s fault. His own Mangekyou came about because their first child had been stillborn, and he thought – he _knew_ – that it was entirely his fault. Then he had told her that the weapon he had gained had been worth the pain that he had gone through, because Konoha and the Uchiha would need one Mangekyou in every generation since the village’s power needed to be maintained.

It had been a desperate attempt at comfort, and he had tried several times to take back his words, especially when their next three children were born and had grown up safely. 

He should have remembered how prone Tajima’s line was to near-obsessive passion. Add to that the work ethic that Tobirama had unintentionally instilled into all of his children, and, well…)

“Both,” Kabato said, jarring Kagami would of his thoughts of his husband. 

“But Madara-sama doesn’t only have the Mangekyou; he has the Rinnegan, too,” Kagami reminded. “And we still don’t know how the latter affects the mind.” Only Madara had it, after all, and no one – not even Tobirama – had managed to figure out just how, much less _why_, Madara had it.

(Tobirama had once said that Matatabi knew, but she would never tell because it was no longer important. Even now, Kagami wasn’t sure what he meant, and he didn’t know if _Tobirama_ knew, either.) 

“So…” Kabato trailed off.

“I have no clue,” Kagami clarified. “I only know that I’m glad every day that he’s still alive and sane.”

A love like that which Madara had for Tobirama was something that threaded its way through an Uchiha’s heart and mind. When Tobirama died… well, Kagami had been quietly glad that Tobirama had the foresight years before to convince Madara to pass on the mantle of both Clan Head and Matriarch to Hakuun and Kagami himself.

Because the clan had steeled themselves for the sight of Madara jumping into Tobirama’s pyre, and had wept themselves hoarse when seven days passed and he didn’t. The fact that his only impulsive, grief-stricken act had been to abruptly resign as Hokage was – despite how much Torifu and the others had to scramble to learn on their feet because none of the Founders had been in any state to teach anything – something Kagami would always be grateful for.

“It would be three years next month,” Kabato said, voce very soft. “Do you still miss him?”

“Whenever I catch a glimpse of white hair at the corner of my eye,” Kagami told him, “I have to remind myself that it is Madara-sama, and not Sensei.”

Madara had had all the mirrors in his wing removed when his hair had turned white after his wife’s death. Kagami had never needed to ask why.

“Maru has volunteered to be part of the contingent headed for Uzushio to receive their gifts for Tobirama-sama,” Kabato said suddenly.

Kagami blinked. “I thought he had retired as a shinobi?”

“He’s returning to active duty temporarily,” Kabato said, shrugging. “His grandson wants to see the ocean, so Maru is bringing him.”

Kagami supposed that it would be rather easier for Maru, as a chuunin, to come out of retirement for a single mission and head straight back into a civilian’s life afterwards. Chuunin didn’t have someone like Hiruzen to breathe down their necks to stay on active duty, after all.

“Little Fugaku is going to be such a spoiled brat,” he said, shaking his head. “And I _still_ can’t believe that Maru is already a grandfather.”

“He married way before you did,” Kabato pointed out. 

“True enough.” By the time Kagami had married at twenty-nine, Maru had already been wed for a decade and his two children were already running around causing trouble.

“Also,” Kabato said, taking on a mock-casual tone that had Kagami narrowing his eyes by instinct, “your mother says that she hasn’t seen you in a while.” He paused. “In fact, Suriko-san is planning to have a little gathering of the families of the ex-washerwomen, and Komaki-san is helping her set things up.” He clapped his hands together. “You should go, Kagami.”

“Did you just come here to try to get gossip on Madara-sama,” Kagami waved a vague hand towards the house, “and to remind me of everyone who had loved Sensei ever since the first day he came to our old compound?”

Kabato’s lips twitched. “I haven’t laid it on about Izuna-sama and Hikaku-sama yet,” he said. “But your mother actually does want to see you.”

“And you’re still better at making prostheses than you are at speaking,” Kagami huffed, shaking his head as he slipped his hands inside his sleeves. “How on _earth_ do you negotiate trades on behalf of the clan?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Kabato hiked up an eyebrow. “My wife does it for me.”

Kagami barked out a laugh before he could stop himself. “Head on back, Kabato-nii,” he said, elbowing the older man gently. “You don’t have to come check whether or not the Clan Head’s residence has managed to implode on itself during the night.”

“I’m not—” Kabato started before sighing explosively, tipping his head back. “In a month, it’d be _another _full year since he was gone, Kagami. Three full years.” His breath rattled out between his teeth. “No one has ever lasted that long before.”

“Mm, Hikaku-sama told me,” Kagami nodded peaceably. “Go on home, Kabato.” 

“But—”

Reaching out, Kagami wrapped his fingers around Kagami’s elbow. “If we need you, or anyone else, to make sure that Madara-sama is safe,” he assured, “I’d send word immediately.”

“Would you, really?” 

Kagami laughed. “I can’t match up to Madara-sama,” he reminded. “Neither can Hak-kun.” It wasn’t difficult for him to admit that; it was a truth, and one that had caused a great deal of trouble some years before.

Withdrawing his hand, he slipped it back into his sleeve again. “Even if Hak-kun and I join forces with Mamiya-chan and Koizumi-chan, we can’t match up to Madara-sama either.” There were several good reasons, after all, why Madara’s face was up on the cliff and none of theirs were, and only two of them were used by Madara as his eyes. 

“So,” he finished, “if he really does plan to do something, we would really need the help.”

“That,” Kabato said, a corner of his mouth twitching up, “isn’t reassuring at all.”

Tilting his fingers slightly out of his sleeve, Kagami wriggled them slightly. “Go on,” he said. “We’ll take care of him.” 

“Alright, alright,” Kabato said, heaving an exaggerated sigh. “But, Kagami…”

“Mm?”

“All those people I mentioned… they aren’t only for Madara-sama.” His dark eyes were bright but heavy as they rested on Kagami’s. “They are for you, too.”

Well, that took a while for him to get to. Kagami lifted his sleeve. “You really should leave the negotiations to your wife, because you’re terrible at this,” he said, knowing that he couldn’t quite hide his smile. When Kabato’s lips thinned, Kagami laughed, reaching out with his other hand to squeeze the older man’s wrist lightly.

“Still, thank you.”

Kabato’s eyes rested on him for long moments before he sighed. His hands reached up and cupped Kagami’s face for the briefest of moments, squeezing his cheeks together like he had used to do long decades ago, before he dropped his hands back to his sides. Then, before Kagami could say a single word, he bowed, and swept back out towards the gate.

He still walked the same way, Kagami thought, and dropped his hand over his eyes so he would stop watching as Kabato’s back grew smaller and smaller. His knees bent, and he dropped down to sit on the edge of the engawa.

“Sensei,” he whispered, staring up to the beams of the roof stretching out above his head. “Couldn’t you have lived for at least another decade more? Look at this mess that you’ve left behind by dying so soon.”

Tobirama had been nearly sixty; a civilian in a shinobi clan to have reached such an advanced age would be considered blessed, much less a shinobi. And though Tobirama had spent his life as Madara’s concubine and then wife practically pampered, he had still spent his childhood and most of his teenage years being pushed too hard in training and being deprived of food on a regular basis. Add to that the damage he had received in Yamagakure… it had been a miracle that he had lived for so long. 

Still, Kagami wished that he had lived even longer. Not only because he missed his teacher and mother-in-law even now, but also because…

It would have been easier if it had been any other Founders who had died first. 

He spent a few more moments staring up at the ceiling beams of the house that Uzumaki Hashirama had gifted his brother and best friend on their wedding day. 

This house that had been Kagami’s refuge when he was a teenager, learning to work alongside his new teammates even while he ached with missing having Maru constantly beside him. This house, he thought, that had seen his husband and her siblings grow up, and then had seen their children, and would see their _grand_children as well. None of whom, Kagami knew, would exist if not for Tobirama’s Equaliser.

The estate was practically in the centre of the village, close enough to the Academy that he could hear the laughter of children newly-released from their lessons, and also near the administrative centre with its constant thunder of footsteps on rooftops as shinobi darted in and out of its windows to make reports. Of course, there was the occasional rare one who bothered to use the door. 

Tobirama had been dead for three years. But Kagami could still see the marks he had left in the village every single day.

Swinging his legs up, he sat back up and shook his head. He really was becoming rather maudlin in his old age, he thought, and dragged a hand through his long tail before he stood. His earrings, twists of metal that shone silver under sunlight and gold under candlelight, smacked against his jaw and tugged against the strands. Untangling them irritably with one hand, he headed westward.

A flash of brilliant blue at the corner of his eye. Kagami stopped, turning, and had to bite back a laugh.

Back during the days before Madara and Tobirama had moved into this estate, there was a rather big hole dug close to the gates. The depth and size of it made it clear that it was meant to be a koi pond, and Madara had even unearthed a few rock carvings and bamboo shishi-odoshi that they had put around the area as decoration.

Though Tobirama had very quickly filled up the pond with water, they never bothered – or remembered – to buy koi to put inside that pond. It was a messy thing full of lotus leaves and duckweed by the time Hakuun had gotten an idea in her head, pulled the water out, carved a few seals at the bottom of the pond while the liquid hovered above her head.

Now, the water in the pond spun whenever one charged the seal up with chakra. The speed could be adjusted according to how much chakra one pumped, and there was even a little hole at the side that was meant for a block of lye. Every morning, someone would gather all of the clothes used the previous day, dump them in the pond, fill it up with a suiton jutsu, and set it to wash. Once the clothes were cleaned and rinsed, the water would drain itself. A few judicious uses of fuuton jutsu had the clothes hanging from the lines in the backyard stretching from tree to tree, and the clothes would be quickly dried.

Hakuun was still looking for ways to make manual folding unnecessary. She had even conquered ironing through a complicated series of seals that used katon and suiton.

Given that the chores were done in the mornings, the pond would be free by the afternoon. Then, Matatabi would harass someone in the house to fill the pond with water, charge the seals up with one of her tails, and paddle around while it spun and spun. The one time Kagami had asked her about it, she said that Hakuun’s little invention saved her the trouble of licking herself clean.

Given that Matatabi’s fur was made of flames _and_ she had never been witnessed to lick herself like a housecat, Kagami wasn’t much inclined to believe that explanation. Not even at twenty-five.

“Having fun?” he tossed over to her.

Matatabi cracked her one eye open to peer at him. Kagami would be more taken in by the fierceness in that bright gaze if Matatabi didn’t switch eyes once in a while.

“He’s not going to thank you for fussing over him,” she said. “Any of you.”

Kagami would be far more surprised if she _hadn’t _been eavesdropping. No one might have made any mention of it, but he would eat his own earrings if Tobirama hadn’t charged Matatabi with Madara’s care – and Madara with Matatabi’s – before dying. It just seemed to be something his Sensei would do.

“We haven’t forgotten what he’s like,” Kagami pointed out. “None of us are expecting to be thanked.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “Only for us to enjoy his presence for yet another year.”

“There’s no real need for you to worry so much,” Matatabi said, eyes falling back shut. Water rippled around her as she shifted to float on her back, two tails sending streams of steam floating upwards from where they were half-submerged in the water. “Tobirama is patient, and his Madara knows that well enough.”

That was less of a hint than an anvil dropped upon his head. Kagami dipped his head, and then followed that with a low bow. “Thank you.”

“You’re too loud when you fret,” Matatabi drawled, and tilted her head in a way that signalled that the conversation was over.

He still had Hiruzen’s warning to deliver. But, Kagami thought, that was of no real urgency; even if Taki managed to capture a bijuu, Mito’s seal that allowed humans to tap on a bijuu’s power was still a secret known to no one but Konoha’s Founders and Uzushio’s ruling family, and Uzushio’s sealing knowledge had practically been promised to Konoha for its use only.

So, he only dipped his head to Matatabi for a brief goodbye, and continued on his way.

The estate had never been particularly large, no matter how huge the people who lived in it seemed, so it didn’t take long for him to step out of its confines. He hesitated at the gate for a moment, looking towards the Senju Clan Head’s residence, before he shook his head and started striding westward again. He waved a few times to those who greeted him.

“Kagami-ji!” A voice hollered from the end of the street.

“Mikoto-chan,” Kagami waved back. “What are you doing with Namikaze-kun?”

“Visiting!” Mikoto answered him cheerfully. Then, before Kagami could ask why it was necessary for her to fireman-carry poor Minato to the Uchiha compound instead of letting him walk like a normal person, Mikoto slapped the boy on the ass and sprinted off to the rhythm of his incoherent protests. 

If there was anything that proved that Mikoto was Izuna’s grandchild, Kagami thought wryly, it was that her lungs were exactly as robust as his, and her logic equally obscure. And if there was no other proof that she was related to Senju Touka, there was the fact that the Namikaze kid had a couple of inches on her and was – according to the reports from the Academy teachers – no slouch when it came to either ninjutsu or taijutsu, and yet, aside from a few ineffectual flailings of the arms, he wasn’t struggling in the least.

Kagami hid his chuckles behind his sleeve, and kept walking.

They had installed the ancestral halls of the Uchiha right smack in the centre of what was now known as the Western Compound, and the house that Madara and Izuna had lived before both had married and moved eastward had become a shrine to the three patron deities of the Uchiha. The path that led to the places of worship was lined with small shops at the sides, each one of them selling items heavy with Uchiha history: war fans with seals written along their ribs, earrings of metal wires caging chakra fire in the style that Madara had made famous when he created them for Tobirama, mesh armour that mixed Uchiha blacksmithing with Senju silk-weaving, and even the spicy senbai that had set afire the Konoha rumour mill that Uchiha taste buds were made of steel.

Picking up a small box of wagashi – two mochi, one made in the shape of an orange fox with nine tails, while the other a blue cat with two – Kagami stepped out of his shoes and swept inside the ancestral halls.

“—laugh about it eventually, I think, even though I think you’d be confused—”

He followed the sound of that still-strong, steady voice deeper into the halls until he found the small shrine that held the tablets of the Uchiha main line.

“—at first.” A soft laugh. “I can just imagine you with your head tilted to the side, waiting for that boy to explain how he could fuck up a jutsu that you have specifically made to be fool-proof.” 

When Kabato had assumed that Madara was inside the estate, Kagami hadn’t bothered to correct him. He knew that Kabato would only fret more if he knew that Madara was here, sitting in front of Tobirama’s tablet. It would give him more reason to think that Madara was edging on the precipice of death.

“Anyway, as you can see, no one would leave an old man be.” Madara heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Tell me, Tobirama; what do I have to do to get all of them to stop hovering? Should I try even harder to master the Hiraishin?” 

Madara had never had the habit of tying his hair while he was in the village’s confines, and he still didn’t bother with it even though every strand had turned white and brittle. Those strands fell over his face now, throwing the lopsided crook of his lips and the creases at the corners of his eyes in sharp relief. His face still looked young enough to make the stark paleness of his hair seemed strange, but Kagami knew that another year or two would multiply the wrinkles enough that Madara would truly resemble a man in his eighties.

Before Tobirama died, Madara had looked much like Izuna: young enough that it was difficult to believe that he had a grandchild, much less a number with some who were nearly full-grown. Though Kagami had known quite a few men who had looked youthful until their sixties before they rapidly aged over a period of five years or less, he knew it wasn’t the case with Madara.

“I’m not here for you, otou-sama,” he said, shifting to the proper address for his father-in-law now that he was in front of him.

When Madara huffed, Kagami picked up three joss sticks from the pile and lighting them with the flame of a thick, white candle that was always kept lit. “I’m here for Sensei.” He arched a brow at the man who had balanced the duties of both the Hokage and the Uchiha Clan Head for over thirty years. “It was _my _student who made such a big mistake, after all; I thought it was _my _right to tell Sensei about it.”

Snorting, Madara slipped his hands into his long sleeves. “Are you going to argue about who gets to tell Tobirama what?” he said, voice dry. 

Kagami tapped the incense sticks on the edge of the pot, dislodging a few stray pieces of ash, before he moved to the place in front of the tablet. He didn’t speak to Madara for long moments, focusing instead of kneeling and bowing to Tobirama’s tablet – pale wood carved and painted with red letters, instead of the dark wood painted with gold that was every other Uchiha tablet – before he stood again and stepped forward.

“Sensei never minded being told about the same event from various people,” he commented mildly, setting the sticks into the incense pot. “He used to say that it gives him a sense of perspective.” He let out a soft chuckle. “Though, he started making us cut to the chase when we passed sixteen.”

“Sixteen is the age when the brain has finished most of its development,” Madara said. “If someone hasn’t figured out how to pick up the main relevant points to tell by then, it is a lost cause.” 

He didn’t need to say for Kagami to know that he might as well be quoting Tobirama directly. Hiding a smile, Kagami withdrew the box of wagashi from his sleeve and placed it on the precarious pyramid of offerings in front of Tobirama’s tablet. Then he clapped his hands together and made another deep bow.

“Making and writing reports was only added to the Academy curriculum after I had graduated from it,” he said once he had lifted his head.

“It was added _because_ the bunch of you liked to ramble whenever you came back,” Madara said, voice dry. “Telling us the unimportant parts isn’t a big deal, but leaving out the relevant portions because they are considered unimportant…”

“Is that why you’re telling Sensei is that Sakumo fucked up?”

“Tobirama might like Sakumo, but he’d find the misuse of the Equaliser to be far more interesting,” Madara shot back immediately. “Especially with how much effort he put into it to make sure that it could be easily learned.”

“So,” Kagami walked backwards until his heel touched a cushion, and he folded down to sit in seiza on top of it. “That has nothing to do with how _funny_ you find the entire situation?”

“I distinctly remember Tobirama teaching you that there can sometimes be two or more reasons for the same thing,” Madara said.

“Of course,” Kagami nodded. “I’m simply out of practice.”

“You talk to me frequently enough.”

“But you don’t often make such an effort to avoid the subject.” He arched a brow and slipped his hands inside his sleeves inside, fingers tapping on the bones of his own wrists as he stared at Madara. “Though I suppose I should be glad that you _are_ up to making an effort.”

Rolling his eyes, Madara tipped his head up to look at the ceiling. “Haven’t all of you been muttering that it would soon be three years? That’s already long past the mourning period.”

“Otou-sama,” Kagami heaved a sigh, “you know that it’s _because_ it has been that long that they are worried.” When Madara hiked up a now-white brow at him, he quickly amended, “That all of _us _are worried.”

That eyebrow stayed up, and Kagami sighed. “You know just as well as I do that it wasn’t Hikaku-sama’s choice to announce to the clan that no one with a Mangekyou had lasted more than three full years after the death of someone else they learned to love most,” he said pointedly. “Everyone had wanted to know.”

“I’m looking at you like that because I can’t believe that all of you tried to look up the historical records for a case like mine.” He dragged a hand through his white hair, tugging out a few strands that he immediately flung to the side. “Doesn’t having the Rinnegan mean that none of the records of the Mangekyou apply to me?”

“We are all worried,” Kagami repeated patiently. Madara’s only response was a sharp huff of air through his teeth before his gaze shifted to the rows of tablets in front of him.

“If I don’t know any better, Tobirama,” he drawled, “I’d think that they _want_ me to not be alright.”

“The fact that you actually said that out loud,” Kagami said, voice calm, “and to Sensei, tells me that you’re not particularly fine.” 

Madara’s gaze didn’t shift from Tobirama’s tablet. If Kagami was any less certain about the relationship between the Nidaime and his late Wife, he would think that it was a look of hatred and resentment. Because those legendary eyes had shifted to the Mangekyou, and were staring at the pale wood as if trying to set it on fire.

Then his eyelids fluttered, black pinwheels expanding until they were the only colour left. “It’s not only Tobirama,” he sighed.

Kagami didn’t need him to elaborate: before Tobirama’s death, the Founders had had a hand in practically every major decision made in the village, and it wasn’t only because of Madara and Mito’s places as the Hokage and Kemuri, either. There had been Tobirama, of course, who had so much of a hand in the creation of the village that his every breath and heartbeat resonated through the vapour in the air, but even he couldn’t have touched every part of the village.

There had also been Izuna, who had managed to befriend practically the entire village and thus knew every piece of gossip; Touka, who had still led the bigger teams for out-of-village mission even when she was the Jounin Commander; Hikaku, who had become every young clan head’s unofficial sounding board after Hakuun had enthusiastically introduced him to those who fitted the description in Konoha; even Hashirama, whose refusal to take part in politics had not stopped him from being powerful and influential enough that his mere presence at a meeting would sway a decision the way he wanted it.

After Tobirama’s funeral, all of the Founders resigned from their positions and disavowed taking part in any aspect of decision-making in the village. The reason Izuna had given on their collective behalf was that they had all been suddenly made aware that they had been interfering too much; Tobirama’s death was the clearest sign any of them could receive that their era had passed, and it was time to hand things over to the next generation.

Still, it had left a massive power vacuum, so much that Jiraiya had immediately packed his bags and left on a continent-wide trip from which he still had not returned, Orochimaru had thrown himself into research to ensure Konoha’s continued technological supremacy, and it had taken the combined efforts of Tsunade, Dan, and Sakumo to steer Danzou away from his idea of early graduation in preparation for war. Kagami had to pull himself out of the retirement he had been in since his miscarriage to reassure the continent that the death of one of Konoha’s gods and the retirement of the others did not mean that the village was now easy pickings.

They could have begged the Founders to return to their posts. They could have asked Hashirama, at the very least, to step out of the village for a single mission. But even if Izuna had been making excuses, he had spoken the truth: Konoha couldn’t rely on the skills and power of their Founders forever. 

Their faces on the mountain might be immortal, but the Founders – the living, breathing humans themselves – weren’t, and could never be. The greatest regret Kagami had was that it had taken Tobirama’s death for all of them to learn that.

“If it’s any consolation,” Kagami said softly, “you will never be the only one left.” His gaze slanted over to Madara, and he gave him a crooked smile. “Matatabi and Kurama will always outlive you.”

“And who,” Madara shook his head, “will be left for _them_?”

“Their new jinchuuriki,” Kagami answered calmly.

“You’re so sure that they would choose someone else?” Madara arched a brow. “Matatabi doesn’t seem to amenable to anyone in the village.”

“She chooses to stay in Konoha,” Kagami pointed out. “Given that, it’s not difficult to believe that she likes Konoha itself, and thus Konoha’s shinobi. Eventually one will be born who will catch her interest.” His lips twitched upwards very slightly. “Or are you telling me that she’s staying because of you?”

“If you think that,” Madara drawled, “you must actually be stupid.”

“Luckily, I’m not,” Kagami refuted with ease. “And that means that I’m right.” Sitting back on his calves, he reached out a hand to briefly brush his fingertips against Madara’s arm. “All of you have built a family in this village, otou-sama. Do you think it’s one who will abandon you?”

“There is plenty in history,” Madara turned back to stare at Tobirama’s tablet, “about pioneers being left to rot once their usefulness has run out.” 

“History talks about that particular founder having gone either mad or paranoid with power,” Kagami corrected, knowing who exactly he was talking about. No Uchiha would ever leave the age of five without knowing the story of Ootsutsuki Indra and how the Uchiha had eventually abandoned his surname to take up the name of the fan that his wife had wielded in battle. “You have done neither.”

Ducking his chin towards his clavicle, Madara chuckled. “How am I supposed to have any worries or griefs when there is always one of you to dissuade me of them?” he asked. 

Despite his words, there were still shadows tucked into the corners of his eyes, and his hands were, like always, hidden within his voluminous sleeves. Shifting his own hand up, Kagami squeezed a bicep gently. “The answer is easy, otou-sama,” he said, keeping his voice light. “You _don’t_ get to keep them.”

Madara’s lips twitched up again. His eyes lifted once more to the tablet, but this time he didn’t linger, shifting almost immediately to Kagami. “The most powerful shinobi of your generation,” he drawled, “and you have become a helpmeet for an old man.”

“The most powerful shinobi of yours,” Kagami countered, grinning, “and you were happiest when letting Sensei use you as a seeing eye dog.” He patted the hand that had laid itself on his elbow, rocking back on his heels and standing. He hid a grin behind his collar when Madara followed him to his feet, his motions as smooth as Kagami’s despite all the complaints he liked to make about his age and aching bones.

His father-in-law was only a few years past sixty. He might have lived twice the number of years that a shinobi was expected to in wartime, but he had long decades in him yet if he wished to have them. And Kagami would do his utmost to make sure that he would _want_ to have them.

“Please excuse us, Sensei,” he murmured, bending into a small bow without letting go of Madara’s hand. 

“I’ll be back tomorrow, Tobirama,” Madara said. “But don’t wait around for me, yome. Go ahead and haunt whoever you think to be interesting.”

Kagami couldn’t help the sharp bark of laughter. “Are you _trying_ to get Sensei to haunt Sakumo?” he asked. “Appear in front of him to demand how he managed to fuck up so badly with the Equaliser?” 

“Nah,” Madara said, matching his steps as they headed out of the ancestral halls. “I felt Orochimaru approach him that morning. Given what I know of _that_ kid, he would’ve ragged on Sakumo for fucking up even better than Tobirama.”

“True enough,” Kagami hummed. Then—

“Kaga-nii! Tou-chan!”

“Ah,” Kagami lifted a hand, ignoring Madara’s amused snort from beside him. “Hak-kun.”

Hakuun was nearly the spitting image of her father, down to the stray hairs peeking out from the braid she kept thrown over one shoulder. But her hands were covered with ink much in the same way as her mother’s had been, and Madara was already tilting his head up, eyes shifting to the Rinnegan to pull the small pile of papers that Hakuun had just dropped back to her hand.

“Thanks, tou-chan,” Hakuun said. Before she could shove the papers down the hem of her hakama – and either tear them or drop them – Kagami slipped them out of her hand and into his own sleeve. “Were you visiting kaa-chan?”

“Hn,” Madara nodded. “Are you going in?”

“Tomorrow,” Hakuun said decisively, taking her father’s other hand and shoving it over her own elbow. “The experiments were well today; I’d rather wait for a day when I get stuck and I’d rant at him then. He was pretty helpful with getting me through roadblocks in my experiments.” 

“He always was,” Madara agreed.

Maybe it’s strange, Kagami thought. They still talked about Tobirama as if he was alive. It might be a coping mechanism but… he turned his head, and looked straight at his teacher’s carved head on the Founder’s Monument.

The village itself kept Tobirama alive, and it would keep all of the Founders alive even after all six of them were dead. 

After all, the immortality of gods laid not in their bodies, but in their stories. And each one of them – Tobirama, Madara, Hashirama, Mito, Izuna, and Touka – had left behind thousands.

And the Uchiha would always remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sakumo eventually becomes Yondaime, and leads Konoha to become an independent country and an economic powerhouse like Uzushio. Eventually he and Orochimaru realise their love for each other is mutual, and carry on being married, except now with less emotional constipation. Kakashi grows up in a very full estate: he has twin half-brothers, both with the signature Hatake white hair and Orochimaru’s golden eyes, and a veritable orphanage’s worth of adopted siblings. Kakashi despairs of his mother’s habit of randomly picking up orphans. (He is told that Sakumo is biologically his mother at around ten years old. His reaction is a distracted “yeah okay,” which makes Sakumo spend the next week having a meltdown overthinking it, after which Orochimaru coaches Kakashi to react with proper gravitas and encourages/allows Sakumo to redo the entire scene. Sakumo feels a lot better after that.) 
> 
> Meanwhile, Uzushio never sinks, and is never in danger of sinking. Isobu is passed from Taji eventually to a girl named Kushina, who becomes the first female Prince of Uzushio. One day, Kushina visits Konoha, and steals herself a bride and handily solves a crisis Minato is in at the time. drelfina wrote this story; you'll see it being posted eventually. :3
> 
> Matatabi does choose a new jinchuuriki at the end, and so does Kurama. Matatabi chooses a girl named Noharu Rin, and Kurama chooses a boy named Uchiha Obito. Given that the two of them come from the same team and end up living together as eternal bachelors sharing a house, Konoha refuses to believe the bijuu whenever they make noises about not liking each other. Kakashi goes from being the genius of the team to being the least powerful, decides that he likes it much more, and eventually realises that he doesn't even want to be a shinobi, and so, he retires be Gai’s housewife who makes bento that the entire jounin contingent of Konoha regularly fight over.
> 
> Madara does end up being the longest-lived Founder, and dies only after he has met his great-great-grandchild, Shisui’s daughter. He leaves behind a clan that is the largest it has ever been and a village that has not seen war for as long as it had existed.
> 
> Further stories of this ‘verse will come from drelfina, who found so much entertainment in the bits and pieces I threw her that she created entire fics from them. Please go subscribe to her series, [The Reckoning](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1649584), for more on aSoS, because I’m pretty much done with it, but she’s not.
> 
> This is the longest fic I have ever written. It started off as self-indulgence, and, at the end, it is still self-indulgent. Thank you to everyone who has subscribed, left kudos, and especially those who have commented. I don’t promise that I will ever be able to reply, but I love each and every one of you for commenting, and you have helped so much in giving me motivation to finish. This fic is dedicated for all of you. ♥♥♥
> 
> If you have enjoyed it at all point, please leave a comment to tell me what you like, okay? ♡♡♡

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in this fandom in literal years, and the first _Naruto_ fic that's more than just a oneshot fling. I am: nervous and comments motivate and inspire. <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Ghost Bride](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22375273) by [drelfina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drelfina/pseuds/drelfina)
  * [To Die Unnamed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22432744) by [drelfina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drelfina/pseuds/drelfina)
  * [Fanart for "a symbol of subjugation"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23125738) by [avocado_chan (orphan_account)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/avocado_chan)
  * [Fanart for 'a symbol of subjugation'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27060316) by [wooyaaah (eichem)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eichem/pseuds/wooyaaah)


End file.
